Drinking Mercury
by Shini no Miko
Summary: {Chapter 9 online.} 2268 AD - A bounty hunter is called to choose between good and evil, love and honour. The problem is, sometimes, the line between darkness and light is greatly blurred. {Yaoi, violence, vampires, sci-fi.}
1. Chapter 1

  


Author's Notes:  
This is a - ::Deep breath.:: - AU vampire sci-fi yaoi fic. It started out as an image of Sano in a Maxtrix-esque leather trench coat, and turned into something much, much more. A few years ago, I did a lot of (bad) original vampire stories, so this is sort of a return home for me. Theoretically, the old ideas were probably pretty good, or at least half-decent, but the execution of them was terrible. I don't know if I've improved any, but let's hope, for your sake, that I have.  
So, like I said, this is yaoi. It's post-apocolyptic sci-fi (although I don't intend to get too detailed in the scientific bits - I'm more interested in the social, political, and supernatural parts of this story), and it's vampires. If it seems like I'm stealing some author's idea from this genre, I'm probably not, because I don't read this a lot of sci-fi. I love it, and I love vampire/horror stuff, and I love supernatural stuff, but I don't read a lot of it. I think the heaviest influences are:  
The Gates to Women's Country, by Sheri S. Tepper (which I'm reading now), Anne Rice (although these vampires aren't exactly like Lestat and Louis), Talaco's sci-fi fic (which I still haven't read! Eek!), for reminding me that I wanted to do this, and _Hunter_ by Clarus, for making me go, Ooooh, Kenshin as a vampire would be sexy!'  
Also, I know there have been a lot of RK vampire fics recently, but... Well, I hope this one stands out, or at least holds it own.  
So. That's all from me!  
**Please read and review**, and **_enjoy_**!!!  
  
_SnM_  
  
  
_To Clarus, the Smutbunny Queen, my fanfic mistress (I'm on my knees with my keyboard in my lap!), maker of Spaghetti-O's and French Toast, constantly supportive pal, and, perhaps most relevantly, the wonderful beta for this little fic that might. Love ya, babe!  
  
  
  
_  
  


  
**Drinking Mercury**  
  
  
  
  
Chapter One  
  
  


  
  
  
The rain pelted the glass roof of the elevator. It stunk of decay inside the glass and steel box, smelled like rotting carpet and dank dust. He looked up. Past the steel elevator cable, and the high-up cross-bar and pulley, he could see the pale, grey sky. Just that little square of foggy grey visible through the open top of the elevator shaft.  
  
It had been raining all day, and it was really starting to grate on his nerves. He didn't really like the rain - too dank, and this city was already dank enough . . . God, what a death trap - this whole fucking city . . . A goddamn ruin, a pile of rubble.  
  
The elevator dinged pleasantly and the glass doors opened to his floor. He stepped out of the elevator and onto the moldy, dirt-red carpet. He walked soundlessly to his apartment, and let himself in.  
  
His apartment was dark - he never left lights on. He hung up his black trench coat, toed off his shoes, and drew one of his pistols from his shoulder holster, pointing it straight into the darkest shadows in the far corner of the room.  
  
What the hell are you doing here? he ground out, clicking off the safety.  
  
There was a soft laugh, and a figure coalesced from the shadows. A sweet-faced young man stepped out of the gloom, smiling slyly. His dark brown hair was tied in a ponytail high at the crown of his head, and he wore a white button-down shirt and black slacks. He did not appear to be armed, but it never hurt to be too distrustful.  
  
I said, he repeated, his gun trained on the boy, what the hell are you doing here?  
  
The young man laughed again, his hair swinging slightly as he shook his head. Thick bangs shadowed his already dark eyes. I'm afraid you don't understand, Mr. Sagara. I'm the one who's supposed to be asking you that . . .  
  
And what the fuck is that supposed to mean? the taller man growled.  
  
It means, this is not your registered place of residence . . . And you _know_ how the administration feels about that . . . A threat to global security such as yourself just can't pick up and move, you know . . .  
  
So the cops sent you? How will they feel if I send you back with a bullet in both your knees?  
  
The young man actually had the audacity to giggle. Sagara placed the longhaired youth at twenty, tops - definitely younger than him. The boy - he was just barely a man, at all - toyed with the collar of his white shirt, which had a few buttons undone to reveal a mess of silver necklaces and chokers, which all shone dully in the poor light. He had a ring on each of his fingers, and his wrists were covered in silver bracelets, as well. I'm sure they wouldn't like that, he said lightly. He flashed a teasingly sympathetic look. But you won't be able to shoot me.  
  
Why's that? Sagara bit out, not lowering his weapon.  
  
You couldn't hit me if your life depended on it, sweetheart . . . He pushed his fingers past the collar of his shirt, brushing them across his chest in a way that might have been seductive, if Sagara weren't so goddamn mad . . . The thing is, Mr. Sagara, I don't _want_ you to hit me . . . All I want, is to give you a message . . . My time is my money, if you see what I mean, and I have this _terrible_ habit of giving my time up to a certain man for free . . . It gets me in all _sorts_ of trouble . . .  
  
Well, then give me your fucking message and get the _fuck_ out of my apartment! He jabbed his free hand in the direction of the door behind him.  
  
The prettyboy laughed again. His sense of humour was really beginning to get annoying . . . The message is . . . Well, it's sort of personal . . . Mind if I whisper it in your ear? he asked coyly. You can put your big gun up to my head while I do, if it makes you feel manly . . .  
  
The tall man glared. Hurry up.  
  
The younger man moved fluidly towards him, and stopped inches away. He stood on his tiptoes to reach Sagara's ear, fingertips resting on his chest, and he pressed those soft lips to the shell of the other man's ear. Sure enough, the armed man pressed his gun into the boy's hair, right above his ear, his finger tight on the trigger.  
  
The boy whispered, his breath hot against Sagara's skin. The message is this: The administration is watching you. You're walking a thin line, Mr. Sagara, a _very_ thin line. Police Chief Saito wants to meet with you soon. He'll send word with a date, and you had better not miss it. The boy darted his tongue out to lick Sagara's ear, and the larger man pushed him away violently.  
  
Temper, temper, the boy teased, regaining his balance easily.   
  
Get - out. Sagara had the gun pointed at his chest again.  
  
He giggled, and made for the door, his demeanor as casual as could be. He lingered in the doorway, much to the tenant's dismay, making doe eyes at him, his bottom lip thrust out in a way that was mathematically figured to be seductive. So long, Mr. Sagara, he said sweetly, tipping his head coquettishly. It sure was nice to meet you. With that, he stepped fully into the hall, pulling the door shut behind himself.  
  
Once the boy was gone, Sagara put the safety back on his gun and did a sweep of the apartment. Nothing planted - nothing that he could find, and there wasn't a tracer or bug he couldn't find. No hidden explosives, no recording devices, no tiny cameras, no motion sensors - nothing. So the boy, whoever the hell he was, really had come simply to deliver Saito's message. Well.   
  
He knew. Sagara knew that the police chief had an eye on him. Saito had been watching him for fifteen years. Saito knew that Sagara could be a real threat if he wanted to be. The problem was, Sagara didn't really _care_.  
  
_So that's all it takes,_ he thought, going to the fridge and getting a beer. He popped it open, and flicked on the light switch. Sitting down at the kitchen table was a dubious proposition - the chairs were all too rickety, so he leaned on the counter, sipping his beer thoughtfully. _I pick up and move and that's all it fucking takes._ He sighed. _Well, I guess it makes sense. Easiest way to bring a guy down. Nail im doin' something small, and pretty soon, everything big he's done shows up, too._ The beer was cold in the empty pit of his stomach. It would take longer to work its little bit of magic that way . . . _But they ain't gonna nail me for this. No . . . That bastard Saito wants something . . . He ain't sayin' what, yet, but I can smell it. The administration is fucking up to something . . . Goddamn sons of bitches . . ._  
  
The beeping of the answering machine finally got through to his consciousness. That obnoxious little beep . . . He put down his beer and went to check his messages.  
  
You have two new messages, and nine old messages, the electronic, female voice chirped at him. There was another beep, and then -  
  
Sagara. S Nik. 9:30, t'night, you bastard, or I'll send someone over to get my order, whether you want to give or not. So you better fucking deliver. A click, another beep, and the second message -   
  
Hi . . . I'm, um, calling for - er - Genly Ai . . . ? My name is Oren Ngele. I was given this number by a Mr. Nikolas. I hope you can help. My number is 84-922-7405. Please call. Thank you. Another click, and the same following beep.  
  
End of messages. Another beep.  
  
Sagara shook his head. Nikolas, you bastard . . . The man was a client, and he had the nasty habit of giving out Sagara's number to just about anyone who brought up the subject of weapons. Nikolas' other nasty habit was paying late - very late - and wanting his orders early. Sagara figured Nikolas wanted his ass kicked, but he bided his time, knowing that, soon enough, the man would give him a real reason to be angry.  
  
He went into the spare room, and opened the the box marked NIKOLAS.' There sat Nikolas' latest order - two rebuilt semi-automatics. He'd bee holding them for almost a month, waiting for the bastard's payment. After a month, he broke down orders or sold them to someone else. Looking at the data sheet on the order, Nikolas had five more days to pay, if he didn't want to restate the order. Five more days for the man to get the money, because, in Sagara's business, there was no delivery without payment.  
  
Sagara shut and locked the NIKOLAS box, and stood up. He sat down at the desk, and turned on his laptop. Time to do a background check on Oren Ngele.' He didn't trust Nikolas even as far as he could throw the man, but if Ngele checked out, he might consider taking the order . . .  
  
  
  
  
The ride home was boring, and Okita hated doing nothing. He'd sort of hoped Sagara would show a little interest, but the prospect hadn't panned out, and the assignment had been just as boring as that sort of job always was. The hired car dropped him at home and, as he'd expected, Saito was waiting for him. The police chief had a key not because Okita trusted him, per se, but because he liked coming home to Saito, because, when Saito came to his apartment, Okita usually got laid.  
  
Honey, I'm home! he called playfully, locking the door behind himself and going to sit on the handsome man's lap.  
  
How did your meeting with Sagara go? Saito asked, his hands on Okita's hips.  
  
Mmm . . . He's pretty, Okita murmured. I wanted to fuck him . . . But he didn't seem terribly interested . . .  
  
Saito chuckled darkly. Not what I meant.  
  
Okita pouted. Well, he didn't shoot me, if _that's_ what you meant! The younger man leaned forward, rolling his hips against Saito's. He got the message clear a day . . . Now - Mmm . . . - stop talking so much . . .  
  
And with that, Saito lifted Okita off his lap, and set him down beside him on the sofa. The long-haired youth moaned as the tall, dark-haired man stood.  
  
You're not leaving . . . !  
  
I have work to do, Saito said calmly. He walked to the door, and removed his jacket from the coat rack.  
  
Okita pulled off one of his rings and threw it at his sometimes-lover, hitting him square on the temple. You bastard. . .  
  
Saito chuckled. I'm bad for business, he said. Go fuck someone who'll pay you. That said, he was gone. Okita considered this suggestion and decided that it was a goddamn _lovely_ idea. . .  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes:  
Not much here, yet . . . Hopefully it sounds promising? Yes? No?  
Genly Ai is the code name under which Sano operates or, really, the name new customers are given when they want to strike up a deal. Genly Ai is the name of the main character from the book The Left Hand of Darkness, by Ursula K. Le Guin. It's a science fiction classic, and sort of fitting, cause I'd like to work some sci-fi in this fic. Sano doesn't know that, though. Most likely, he just opened the book, saw the same, and said, Hey, that works,' and printed up a business card. And, after all, anyone can have a business card, and you mustn't believe what's written on them . . .  
Loooots of yaoi here. There is much more to come, too. Okita and Sano? What? Only in a world with Slutty Okita (TM) would this be possible. Otherwise, it isn't a pairing that I would (could!) consider.  
Lastly, the title was suggested by Clarus and comes from the Smashing Pumpkins song Ava Adore. Thanks Clarus!  
Again, I say, pleaaaase read and review! I crave comments - good or bad!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
  


Chapter 2  


  
  
  
  
Police headquarters in Tokyo Haven were something akin to hell, a screaming mess of work and life with little apparent order. In order to run an entire city of ruthless outlaws, it had to be. Saito could appreciate this. Sagara, on the other hand, did not seem appreciative in the least.  
  
The chaos was tightly controlled, but overbearing, a cacophony of life trapped in a sterile, white building. The shouts of inmates in the holding facilities echoed down into the main building of the station. The noise of their lives echoing in the sanctuary of offices and cubicles. Above the intrinsic hum of the inmates was the noise that accompanied any office - the conversations, ringing telephones, radio broadcasts, whir of a facsimile or copying machine. It built, in some places, lulled in other, but the chaos seemed to control the people more than the people seemed to control the chaos. At times, Saito mused, the order of every business was disorder, the way of life cluttered like the city streets were cluttered, by rubble and people and sometimes impassible barriers.  
  
Sagara was scowling at every person who crossed his path. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his black trench coat, his shoulders hunched dangerously. Sagara struck the chief as a man angry at the world. If twisted in the wrong direction, Saito imagined that Sagara could be a very dangerous force. In the same way, if the administration could sway him, he would be invaluable.  
  
You aren't here to be arrested, Sagara, Saito snapped. So don't act like it.  
  
He growled softly. Excuse me for having little faith in your fucking regime, Mr. Police Chief, _sir_.  
  
One of the officers stood in front of him, rigid and at attention.  
  
the tall man said.  
  
Sir, we've apprehended three of the-  
  
Thank you, Saito cut in, throwing a wary glance at Sagara. I understand. Leave the report in my office. I'll speak to your team later about the issue. Dismissed.  
  
The officer saluted, and disappeared off into the office.  
  
The dark-haired boy was giving him a dubious look, his eyebrows raised, a smirk playing on his lips. Save it for my office, Saito snapped, and the kid chuckled.   
  
You sure are full of shit, Chief, he said.  
  
  
  
  
Mind if I smoke? Saito asked once they were in his office.  
  
Sagara shrugged. Suit yourself. That shit is bad for you, though.  
  
The elder man snorted, and leaned back in his armchair. He lit a cigarette, and blew out the first cloud of acrid, grey smoke, regarding the young arms dealer through the fog. They don't sell tobacco in many places, Sagara, precisely for that reason. The administration outlawed it years ago as a health risk.  
  
But they'll kill children with heart disease or asthma. Sagara did not look comfortable in his seat, in this room, in Saito's company. He looked resentful of the whole headquarters and everything it stood for.  
  
Not children, Sagara. Young adults. And, yes, they do. Cigarettes cause cancer, Sagara, cancer and birth defects in pregnant women, among other things. Those are unacceptable health risks. He sucked in smoke, held it, and let it out.  
  
You sound like a fucking textbook, Chief. I spent long enough in school for my fucking tastes. Don't need you lecturing me. Sagara glared at him, his golden eyes dark and glittering. So fucking smoke your special cigarettes if you want to, but don't expect me to care.  
  
You're very passionate, for someone who claims not to give a shit, Sagara. Saito inhaled more smoke, waited, and exhaled. His office had no windows - To be near a window in Tokyo Haven, especially if you were someone important like himself, was mere folly. A window was an opportunity for someone to shoot you.  
  
Never said I didn't care about anything, he pointed out, leaning back in his own chair. Just don't care about bastards like you.  
  
Saito laughed. Although obnoxious, the boy was certainly entertaining . . . And he had promise, he really did. All he needed was encouragement. So what, pray tell, do you care about?  
  
What do I care about? Sagara sounded dubious, perhaps rightly so. You're asking _me_.  
  
I'm asking you, Saito reiterated.  
  
Sagara's smile was tight, vicious, his mouth a thin, pale line. I'll tell you what I care about, Mr. Big Shot I Run the Whole Fucking City So Bow Down to Me' Police Chief. His face was set, the anger clear and bright in his features. Sagara, Saito knew in that moment, was a passionate man - a passionate, determined man. I care about a little thing called justice. And another little thing called honour. None of you - you administration scum - know anything about it. You all know a lot about peace and harmony, but none of that's any good if you're a fucking bunch of hypocrites.  
  
Oh, yes . . . This young man would be perfect for their purposes. Simply perfect. Let me tell you something, Sagara. Tokyo Haven, in case you haven't noticed, is a little different from the rest of the planet.  
  
Sagara cut in. It's a pile of shit!  
  
But a free pile of shit, Saito corrected. Tokyo Haven is called a haven because it's the only place on the planet - on the _planet_, Sagara - where a criminal may live as a citizen. The only place on the planet where weapons may be manufactured and dealt; the only place where drugs - like tobacco and alcohol - are sold freely. There is not another city on the planet with a liquor store. If there is alcohol, it is rationed for medicinal or celebratory purposes. You've lived a privileged life here in Tokyo Haven for these past fifteen years, even if you don't realize it.  
  
Fuck you, you bastard! the thin youth snarled, leaning forward, clutching the arms of the chair tightly.  
  
Keep your temper, boy. The citizens of Tokyo Haven may enjoy a gross amount of freedoms, but we could still bring you down for escaping extermination.  
  
he returned smugly. I'm one hundred percent. You can't exterminate me if I'm over ninety-seven percent and you know it.  
  
Of course, but you weren't when you escaped, and that is a capital offense. The smirk slipped from the kid's face, and Saito took pleasure in it. We've let it go all these years - at first because you were just a kid who didn't matter, and, now, because we want your help.  
  
Some way to win a guy's favor, Sagara said coldly. If they wanted my help, they could've sent someone a little bit nicer instead a you. Hell, I liked that whore you sent more than I like you.  
  
Saito smiled briefly. So you enjoyed Okita's visit, did you?  
  
If that's what his name is. Sagara shrugged. He pissed me off, but he's at least cuter than you are. And, besides, he didn't smell like exhaust.   
  
If you're quite done, Sagara, I'd like to explain to you why we've invited you here.  
  
the kid said, leaning back and tucking his hands behind his head. Like I said before, suit yourself. You're the boss, here. You should try acting like it sometimes.  
  
Very well, boy. Saito rose, and locked his office door, which - he could feel it in the air - made Sagara a whole hell of a lot more uneasy. He went back to sit down behind his wide desk, and sat back in his armchair again. Let me give you a little history lesson, Sagara. I think you might just enjoy it, if you gave it a chance.  
  
After taking another drag on his quickly burning cigarette, Saito began. In 2078, the Reconstruction began - Don't interrupt yet, Sagara, he said quickly when the boy opened his mouth to object. 2078 found the planet in ruins, suffering from the greatest destruction in history. Measures were taken - drastic measures. In our pacifist regime, there is no longer a word in use that describes the cause of this destruction. The Reconstruction administration found it imperative to wipe out all memory of the incident, in which they have been surprisingly successful. Any child born today will grow up with no word in their vocabulary to describe the kind of fight' that resulted in global destruction.  
  
Admirable as that might be, there have been many other words removed from the language, in an attempt to discourage violence. Don't look so surprised, Sagara. I'm sure you, with all the schooling you'd _ever_ need, would know that. But there is one word among many that interests the administration right now:  
  
Vampire.' Do you have any idea what that word might mean . . . ?  
  
The hazel-eyed youth glared at him, as if to say, So what if I don't?' His hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists behind his head.  
  
I didn't think so. Don't worry, Saito said with a strain of false sympathy. Most people don't, either. Even the officers I have working on the case don't understand, truly, what it means to be a vampire.' But I'm offering to tell you because I think - and the administration agrees - that, armed with this knowledge and the proper training, you could be a very powerful force for us.  
  
Who the hell says I wanna work for the _administration_?! Sagara snarled.  
  
We're offering you immunity, Sagara, the chief said coolly. _Total freedom_. The promise that you can live the rest of your life without the threat of death lurking around. That's not to say that we're going to encourage you to challenge the administration, but you will be _protected._ Should you get sick, we'd have medical facilities ready. Should you get in trouble with the law, we'd provide lawyers.  
  
You bastard, the boy spat. I'm not so easily bought!  
  
The freedom to leave Tokyo Haven? To see your biological family again? They're still around, you know. A father, a mother, two healthy, happy children. The boy ninety-seven percent, the girl ninety-eight. We have a file on them, because they are yours. Wouldn't you like to leave Tokyo Haven some day . . . ? Wouldn't you like to live in an open city - a _real_ city?  
  
Their silence was heavy as Sagara considered. He hadn't been outside the city limits in fifteen years and, though Tokyo Haven was expansive, he sometimes felt trapped. Once you went into the Haven, you never came out again. Tell me what this job is.  
  
Saito smiled. I'm glad to hear you're interested. The chief took another drag on his cigarette, the smoke curling his head as be began.  
  
The word vampire' is old in its origins, dating back thousands of years before the Reconstruction. A vampire,' in the classical definition, is understood to be a reanimated corpse which sustains itself by killing and drinking the blood of the living.  
  
Sagara made a face. That's sick.  
  
The older man sneered, agreeing. Yes. And it only gets better from there on in. There are many different stories about these supernatural creatures. Sometimes they're hideous monsters, sometimes they're beautiful, sometimes they have souls, and sometimes all they're interested in is death . . .  
  
So why are you telling me fairy tales about gross, blood-hungry corpses? Tryin' to scare me into submission?  
  
Saito ran his free hand through his thick, black hair. In the other hand, the cigarette was almost entirely burned down. He inhaled more smoke, letting it out slowly. No. I'm telling you because, if you choose to accept our offer, this is the enemy you will be facing.  
  
He couldn't help it. He really couldn't. His mouth hung open. You're kidding, right?  
  
Not at all, Saito said, putting out the smoldering butt of his cigarette. You're not a student of history, I can tell. So rest assured when I tell you that the fact that anything is possible' is substantiated by solid historical evidence.  
  
In any case, he continued, the administration would like to hire you to serve as a sort of - bounty hunter . . . In other words, we'll pay you, per corpse, for every vampire you kill for us. Sagara's handsome eyes were still wide in shock. It pleased Saito greatly. Do you want to know more?  
  
There was silence, and Sagara's face closed down, his mouth thinning, his eyes narrowing speculatively, as he steeled himself to the idea. Tell me how to kill the fuckers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes:  
You're probably confused now . . . But, eventually, things will be clarified - somewhat, at least. For now - Well, look forward to Sano's first kill as a bounty hunter, among other things.  
Once again, gigantic thanks to Clarus-sempai-sama-dono, who is kind enough to beta this silly little thing, not to mention continually support any efforts I may be making. Thank you, dear. Also, hugs to Rei-chan, who I can't bug as much now. Little Miss College is far away. ::Cries.::  
Saaaaaaaa . . . More soon - Hope you liked this.  
Yoroshiku, baby, desuno!  
  
_SnM_  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  
  
The sound of a wall crumbling was nothing new in Tokyo Haven. The destruction to the sprawling city had never been undone, and it was, in effect, a living ruin. Every building was falling apart, street were torn up, windows shattered by bullets or from larger impacts - from weapons no longer in use. Water leaked from every pipe, but it wasn't much of a loss. Lead and other naturally - and unnaturally - occurring chemicals had long since poisoned the city's water. On wet days like this one, the scent of rotten eggs - the sulphur in the water - permeated the city, not even fully dissipating until days after the rain stopped. Drinking water was shipped in from other locations, and bathing water was purified with imported chemical compounds. The stench of decay, however, rose not only from the water, but from the earth, the buildings, the exhaust. Tokyo Haven was perhaps less a living ruin than a rotting corpse, populated only with the worst sorts of life.  
  
So Sagara did not look up when he heard shards of cement hitting the blacktop. The night was dark, starless, the rain still dripping unhappily down from the heavy clouds. The sound of dripping and running water, the gurgle of the drains and the over-full sewers, all of it served to mask the footsteps as they were approaching.  
  
He was underdressed for the chilly, dank weather, though he had long-since grown accustomed to the goose-bumps that every cold wind raised on his skin. The icy hand on his shoulder sent shocks down his spine, and he whirled around, jumping back and falling into a defensive crouch.  
  
Facing him was a creature like nothing he had ever seen. In the poor light, it did not seem hideous, nor was it beautiful. Its skin was white and grainy, its face twisted in something akin to anger. It lunged at him. He kicked the thing away, and it was surprisingly light. It screamed as it hit a wall, bits of wet plaster sticking to its clothes. It got to its feet with an uncanny ease, and fairly flew at him.  
  
Sagara pulled a gun from his shoulder holster, and shot it through the chest. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, the air gone from his lungs. It had its frail-looking, but sickening powerful hands wrapped around Sagara's throat, and he could feel the promise of bruises already. The thing screamed again, a guttural screeching, its mouth twisted wide open. Sagara stared up, stunned, unable to look at anything other than that head. Teeth, sharp and clean white, were the thing that best captured his attention, and, before he knew it, they were descending towards his neck, a growling noise bubbling from the open mouth.  
  
He caught the thing's face in one of his large hands before those teeth could touch him, and he pushed the creature's head back with all his might. His other hand went to its shoulder, pushing back, as well. The thing was on his chest, the hands still tight around his neck. He couldn't breath! Goddamnit!  
  
His right leg came up, and he hit the back of the vampire's head with the heel of his heavy boot. It screamed again, its breath cold against his palm. The feel of it made him want to retch, but there was no time now! The hand on the thing's shoulder went into its thick hair, and yanked the head back.  
  
Sagara managed to get a foot against its chest, and pushed - hard. It went flying across the long-abandoned parking garage, slamming into the wall so hard that the supports shuddered a little. This time, the monster struggled to get to its feet. Sagara pushed himself up.  
  
His gun! His fucking gun! Where the fuck was his gun?! It had fallen when the thing knocked him to the ground - Where the fuck did it go?! If he could hurt it enough, he'd have time to kill it. An injured creature moves slower! Right?! It was moving, getting up! He needed his gun! He stood, still searching. The goddamn fucking-  
  
The vampire was on him. He staggered forward under the force of the lithe body dropping onto his back. It screeched again, and Sagara realized that his head was aching miserably. No time to think - Get it off!  
  
He felt the teeth on the back of his neck, a searing pain. He screamed, this time, and hunched over, flipping the thing over his back and against the nearest wall. He pulled one of the heavy, wooden stakes from the other holster - What a waste of a space for a gun! - and lunged at the struggling, growling creature.   
  
His foot slammed down on its face, and he heard the nose crunch even as it screamed. He could feel blood under his boot, but that didn't matter. He took aim, and with a vicious thrust of his arm, sunk the stake into its heart.  
  
It wailed again - a miserable, agonizing wail that cut through the thick, moist air. It made Sagara's skin crawl. The thing was not dead yet. It struggled hopelessly, like a half-crushed insect, keening the whole while. The blood that oozed out of the wound and over its chest was so deep red that, in the night, it looked black.  
  
Finally it stopped moving, and Sagara let out a sickened breath. He wanted to throw up - badly - but now was not the time. He would get home, and he could vomit, then. But not now, not yet. There were still things that needed to be done.   
  
He took his foot away from the death creature's head, giving it one last kick for good measure. It jerked from the impact, but it was well and surely dead. Lying on the asphalt, it looked like little more than a skeleton, white skin stretched over thin bones, hair sort of matted and gross the way he imagined a long-dead thing's hair might be. Its skin was uneven; it looked almost as if it had been melted. Again Sagara fought down the urge to vomit. He would have to ask Saito about it. Were they all this ugly? He'd thought...  
  
Saito came as a cold reminder, pushing speculation away. _Cut off its head, _he'd said. _Burn the body and bring the head to us. We pay you per provided head - If we don't see it, you don't get paid for it. Unless you're killing them en masse, we need evidence that you've done your job._  
  
So Sagara reached into his pants leg and pulled out a knife. He nudged the vampire's head with the toe of his boot, positioning it in a way that he thought might make severing it a little easier. Then he knelt on the damp pavement and slammed the knife down.  
  
The sound of metal and bone meeting made his skin cold, and the hot blood that was splashed on his face and neck only made it worse. He could feel the monster's blood dripping down his neck, sliding down the exposed skin of his upper chest to soak into the thin cotton of his tank top.  
  
It took a moment, but he finally found the strength to look down. The curse slipped from his lips without a though. The neck was only half severed - the cut was clean and all the way down to the pavement, but the blade had only been long enough to sever half the neck. The other half was intact, though wet with blood.  
  
He rose, feeling somewhat detached, and walked around the corpse, trying to avoid the thick, slowly congealing blood that had pooled on the pavement. He knelt on the other side, and hacked through the flesh, repeating the spray of blood across his front. He held back a shudder, and pulled a plastic garbage bag from his pants pocket. In went the head, and the bag was tied up tightly.  
  
Sagara stood, and pulled something else from his pocket - a small, silver hip flask. He emptied the flask's contents - pungent gasoline - over the vampire's corpse, and returned it to his pocket. Then he lit a match, tossed it on the body and stepped back to watch it burn.  
  
As he did so, he noticed a dull shine, and looked over - his gun, lying next to a small pile of rubble and trash. He bent to pick it up, and returned it to his shoulder holster. The other side of the holster was empty, the stake still through the vampire's heart, and he felt imbalanced. He could tell that he would be going through a lot of wooden stakes. He could also tell that he'd need to streamline this routine if he wanted to make any real money at it . . . He could see the potential - if he could manage to run like a well-oiled machine. That might take some practice, more training, maybe some experimentation - within reason, when it wouldn't cost him his life. But he had faith in himself. Sagara knew that he could do this.  
  
But what Sagara was most aware of, at the moment, was how tired he was. His muscles ached, his neck was bruising, his elbow was throbbing from slamming the stake and the knife down so hard. All he really wanted to do was drop the goddamn head off, collect his ten thousand euros, and go home. Once he was back in his shoddy, dank apartment, he could take a shower, go to bed, and forget this had ever happened. Somehow, though, Sagara had the feeling that this nightmare would be one less easily forgotten than some others . . .  
  
  
  
  
The pain of a dying descendant sang loudly in his blood. No one important, nor anyone closely related, but he could feel it all the same. He could feel it, could feel the tiny strain of his blood in his kin's as it spread across wet pavement and cooled and congealed and then heated from fire. It surged through him, shared blood calling out to shared blood, a sort of tingling. It was a physical sensation, a burning in his veins. He had seen his share of corpses burned and experiencing immolation, no matter how distantly, brought a sick weight to his heart.  
  
He whined. This did _not_ feel good. He hated this. He hated it when one of his died. He could always feel it, feel their pain, however indistinctly. It sent shivers over his smooth skin, made him feel sick to his stomach.  
  
He pressed his nose to his lover's thigh, breathing in his cool, musky scent, focusing on the wool of his trousers. He whimpered again, pressing his face against that slightly scratchy, black cloth. He closed his eyes, trying to very hard to think of something else.   
  
This was what he got for trying to let himself feel. This was what he got for staying so open to the world, even after all this time . . .  
  
A strong, fine hand slipped through his soft hair to cradle the back of his head. He leaned his head back obediently and was met with a pair of somber, dark eyes. Now is not the time, precious, said his lover.  
  
Yes, Master . . . he whispered. The word, that title, slipped so easily off his tongue, but he did not care for the taste. It's only . . . He sighed quietly, looking up at the strong jaw and pale skin of that handsome face. Then he turned his head to look at their audience. Only Shishio. He could speak freely. he murmured, shifting in a futile attempt to escape the discomfort, one of mine died . . . I can feel it . . . He moaned, pressing his cheek to his keeper's thigh again. He sat at the man's feet, between his knees, obedient, subservient . . . And yet this man could not feel his displeasure.   
  
Those serious eyes shifted in their expression, the consternation fading as a slight hint of worry appeared. Then, just as easily, it was gone, and his lover's expression was simple and strong once again.   
  
Shishio said, his tone commanding as usual. His lover's second-in-command was a truly terrifying man, with an anger and a hunger for violence shining in his eyes that rivaled any he had ever seen before. But his lover, he thought, was stronger, at least for the time being . . . He would not let his lover be taken down by such a greedy man as Shishio. No. That could never be the course of things.  
  
His lover looked up. I know you're still here, Makoto, he said, his hand slipping out of the boy's hair. But Kenshin has just brought something to my attention.  
  
Shishio snarled. So I heard. You shouldn't keep that brat out here while you're conducting business, Sir.  
  
The man on the dais glared down at his second-in-command. Watch what you say, he growled. You're dismissed, for now, Makoto, but we will have words later. I shall send for you. The other man stood, and left through the heavy double doors, letting them bang shut in his wake.   
  
The delicate man moaned again, pressing his face against his lover's leg needily. The body in the throne moved, and he was lifted into strong, slender arms. he said, twisting in his Master's arms, trying to shy away from the invasive pain. . . . They're burning him . . . It hurts, Katsura . . . It's so hot . . . ! _Katsura_ . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes:  
These aren't European euros. It's just sorta along with the idea of a universal nations. During the Reconstruction,' the nations unified - so there's just Earth. That's all. They share a currency, a language, et cetera. That's also why, when I get to it, the names will be in western order, because that's the way the administration does things, and so that's how everyone does things.  
Also - Humungo (er?) thanks to Miss Clarus-sempai-sama-dono (I added another one, dear!) for her fan-effing-tastic job beta-ing this fic, and for all the good she's done me, and for the smut, too. (Cause God knows there has to be smut!) I hope I'm not distracting you too much from your reaaaaaal goals. (Like Incarnate?!?! Hint, hint, wink, wink!)  
Lastly, hyper wiggling of the fingers to - Oryo: Love ya, dear! Thanks for your kind words! FarStrider: This is just the beginning of the vampire interaction. Much more is to come. kthy: Aww - Thanks so much! I'm glad you like it.   
And on oooooooone, final note:  
Clarus raised this question recently - If Sano were Buffy, would that make Kenshin Angel, or Spike. I'm not entirely sure, but I'm inclined to say Spike, cause Angel's too mopey and Spike is totally kick-ass. At the same time, Kenshin isn't as mean as Spike. I dunno. Thoughts?  
Please review!!!!! I will love you for it!!!!  
Yoroshiku, baby, desuno!  
  
  
_SnM_  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

  
  
  
  
The water was hot on his cold hands, but Kenshin was shivering, so it didn't matter. That tiny body was shaking miserably on the floor of the bath as Katsura stripped the two of them. The redhead moaned pitifully as he was picked up again.  
  
he whispered. Please, Katsura. I don't like this . . .  
  
To see the slender boy - though he was hardly a child - in such discomfort made Katsura ill. He stepped quickly into the spacious bath, walking through steaming water to a shallow seat against the wall. There he deposited his precious lover, and sat beside him, holding Kenshin's head to his chest.  
  
He was crying. Katsura . . . he sobbed, his tears flowing freely. He's dead, Katsura! He's dead! His tears were cold and wet against Katsura's skin. I don't want this feeling anymore . . . I don't want it! Make this stop, Katsura . . .  
  
It made his skin crawl, that Kenshin was so desperate. Though he _looked_ not a day over fourteen, Kenshin was much older than that. . . _much_ older. The petite vampire was usually possessed of a calm that Katsura had never seen before in any other creature. He felt ill just watching his suffering, hearing the soft, whimpering noises that issued from Kenshin's throat. _Is this what pain does to us?_ he wondered. Katsura, himself, had never experienced such pain. The children he'd sired lived on, death had not been agony. This pain his lover was in - it was foreign to him, and he knew no way to cure so great a hurt. Yes, it made Katsura ill - partially in sympathy for his precious love, and partly, though he could not say it, in fear.  
  
He pulled Kenshin's head away from his chest, and bent to kiss him. The redhead stilled, startled, his mouth slightly open. Katsura deepened the kiss, and Kenshin seemed to understand. His pale-skinned lover, Katsura knew, was not one for words anymore, if he ever had been. Kenshin was ruled by sensation. _Perhaps_, he thought distractedly, touching his tongue to Kenshin's, _that's why the pain of his kinsmen hurts him so . . . _ It had never occurred to Katsura, but it seemed feasible. Kenshin took the kiss as comfort, a way for Katsura's lips to say things Kenshin didn't want to hear out loud.  
  
His whispered, I love you's were always met with silence and a downcast gaze, at best, a quiet, I know.' Katsura could - and did - express his adoration for the fragile creature at every available opportunity, but it made little difference. What mattered to Kenshin, he had come to realize over the past few decades, was the physical. If Katsura could give the redhead pleasure - or, under some circumstances, if he could cause him pain - Kenshin would respond. Sweet nothings didn't make him budge, but with a well-placed hand, a kiss, Katsura could convince Kenshin to move mountains.  
  
he gasped, a different sort of desperation in his voice. Oh, God! Master . . . he pleaded, his voice soft and breathy. Please . . . I need you . . . His thin, white hands were on Katsura's bare chest, pressing, needy.  
  
As he maneuvered the redhead against the wall, Katsura thought that at least he would successful in distracting Kenshin from his pain.  
  
  
  
  
Hey-! Hey, Sagara! Hey!  
  
He didn't stop walking until the hand touched his shoulder. Then he wheeled around and socked the bastard right in the face. The man stumbled, regained his balance, and spat towards Sagara's feet before laughing. Stubborn son of a bitch, he said , smirking.  
  
Sagara scowled.  
  
Nevertheless, the blond continued. How'd it go?  
  
He shook the stinking, heavy garbage bag. How do you think it went, you mother fucker?  
  
Watch your mouth when you speak to your superiors.  
  
Shove it, Sawagejo, the brunette snarled.  
  
Again the blond laughed. Cool it, Sagara, cool it. No hard feelin's. I had the shit kicked outta me a coupla times. Happens on everyone's first kill.  
  
Shut the fuck up.  
  
He chuckled. It's true, man. Don't you go thinking you ain't nothing but the best. Chief wouldn't a called in nobody but the best. It looked, for a moment, like the blond was going to clap him on the shoulder again. One icy look from Sagara and the hand stilled at his side.  
  
How long have you been at this, buddy? Sagara asked.  
  
The officer considered, scratching his scalp. Been on the force for six years . . . he said, shrugging.  
  
Sagara grit his teeth. No, I mean, how long has this little vampire' project been going on? There were questions he wanted to ask, but he'd decided that he sure as hell didn't want to bring them up with Saito. But, maybe, if Sawagejo had been on the job long enough, he could be of some help. Brash and obnoxious as he was, he'd been the one to train Sagara, and he knew his stuff.  
  
We can't talk about that out here, the blond said somberly, his brows drawing close.  
  
Well, where the hell can we talk about it, then?  
  
Cho jerked his head in the direction of a door down the hall. So the two of them walked down the white, sterile hallway and slipped into the empty conference room. The blond leaned easily on the table.   
  
So how long have you been on this case? Sagara repeated, standing his ground stiffly across from Sawagejo.  
  
Over a year, he said. Just over. The guy at trained me and the other guys on the team - he's dead now. He's a damn sight better n me at all that history stuff, but Arai ain't doing any more teaching - ever again.  
  
His eyes broke away from Cho's face, as he studied the neat conference room. If there was one clean, stable building in all of Tokyo Haven, it was the police headquarters. Everything else was continually rotting, but the cops all had clean offices.  
  
Shakku Arai was the only scholar left on the planet who knew about vampires. It'd been passed down through his family since before the Reconstruction - all the history, how to kill them, all that shit - but it was totally underground. The government didn't find out about it until about twenty years ago, and then they freaked. They put Arai in jail and told his wife that if his son ever breathed a word about his dad's secret, he'd be put in prison, too. Sons of bitches don't kill anyone - they just lock them up like dogs . . . Ain't no goddamn good in that . . .  
  
Anyway. Two years ago, the administration figured out that vampires were a big deal - that they were actually a very immediate threat. So, after a lotta debate and some string pulling, they took Shakku outta prison, and brought him here to train a task force.  
  
Sagara asked. Why isn't he here anymore? He just get old, or what?  
  
Sawagejo said darkly. No, didn't get old. He was only fifty-some when they brought him here.  
  
Then what?  
  
They killed him.  
  
They . . . Sagara scowled. You mean vampires.  
  
Yeah, vampires, the blond spat. A coupla months ago, he disappeared. Then this building downtown burned to the ground . . . Found bone shards or somethin' - and they were Arai's.  
  
There was doubt in Sagara's mind. How d'you know it was vampires, though. Mighta been anyone.   
  
Cho shook his head. I know. We all know. It's just - It's just the way it is. No explaining it, it's just the truth.  
  
Well, whatever. Look - I got a question. He could feel the other man's gaze on the side of his face, but he wouldn't look back. He wouldn't.  
  
Sure, go ahead an' ask, Sawagejo said, calmly enough.  
  
These vampires - Are they supposed to be ugly? I mean, you never talked about that, but . . . This one I killed tonight - It was one ugly son of a bitch.  
  
The blond nodded slowly, understanding. His hand tensed on the metal back of a chair, and then relaxed again. The change don't make em ugly. If you're a vampire, you look like you did when you were a live - paler, maybe a little thinner, but you look like you.  
  
Sagara's eyes widened. So that one tonight-  
  
Was like that when he was alive, Cho finished.   
  
Then -! He had to be a-  
  
The officer nodded again. he interrupted again. But hold yer horses, lemme finish what I was sayin'. Ignoring Sagara's black glare, he continued. If the piece a shit you killed out there t'night was ugly to begin with, ain't nothin' gonna fix that now. But he mighta been good lookin'. Depends on how you mean by ugly. If a vampire gets real, real hungry - hasn't fed in weeks, maybe months, like - it'll get all dried out. Looks more like a corpse an usual. So maybe the fucker was really hungry . . .  
  
Sagara bit his cheek, considering this. Well, he was fighting like he was desperate, but - I don't think that's it.  
  
One sure way to find out, Sawagejo said with a cock-eyed smirk. Lemme have a look.  
  
Reluctantly, Sagara held out the bag, which the other bounty hunter took from him. As Cho untied the knot, the smell of rot and blood filled the room, making the brunette want to gag. The officer pulled the head from the garbage bag, holding it up by its hair. He let out a long, low whistle, his eyes trained on the bloody, severed head.  
  
muttered Sagara, his head turned away. Killing things he didn't mind, really, but having to carry them around was another thing. The stench of death had been lingering around him since the vampire showed up in that run down parking garage.  
  
Nice, clean cut, Sawagejo said.  
  
_What a fucking compliment,_ Sagara thought. he said dryly.  
  
The other man put the vampire's head back in the bag, and tied it up again. He dropped it on the conference table with a sickening sort of wet thud. Need to get you a longer knife, though, he added.  
  
I know.  
  
Anyway - That thing wasn't fucking hungry. It was like that before. The skin's bad.  
  
Sagara said. Now that the stench was somewhat quelled, he found that he could look back over at Sawagejo, who was still just leaning against the table, his hand on the back of a chair. So . . .  
  
So the guy _was_ a reject. Someone who wasn't perfect, and was gonna die.  
  
Why would anyone wanna be immortalized if they look that bad? the brunette mused absently.  
  
There was no teasing in Cho's voice now. The Gentleman, he's a smart guy. He's creating a whole legion of vampires, but he knows that just your average people won't make good fighters in this sort of situation. Think about it - you're born deformed, maybe with shitty skin, or whatever, and they're gonna kill you for it because you could pass if on to your children. It makes a guy fucking mad.  
  
Sagara's eyes were dark when he said, I know.  
  
So the Gentleman is collecting these guys - rescuing em from extermination, keeping em for a couple years, makin' em even angrier, and then turning em into vampires.  
  
That's sick - This is all sick, Sagara muttered, shaking his head.  
  
Well, yeah, Sawagejo said with a roll of his dark eyes. But, hell, if you were a reject, wouldn't you love it? The blond did not miss the scowl on Sagara's face, but he knew better than to make anything of it. He pushed away from the table and made for the door. he said lightly, throwing open the door and stepping into the white hall, after you drop that off, you wanna go have a beer? I mean, you may be a tight-assed bastard, but you're tougher'n most of the station's guys.   
  
Nice to hear that you have so much fucking faith in the police force, Sagara ground out. He grabbed the bag and followed Cho out of the room. Maybe the blond was dense. Then again, maybe the exhaustion and misery and anger didn't show quite as much as he felt like they did. After all, he hadn't looked at himself in the mirror yet. Maybe he was all sunshine and roses after that kill. Upon consideration, Sagara decided that Sawagejo had to be dense, skills and wisdom as a bounty hunter aside.  
  
Do you wanna go? My treat, seein' as you're the rookie an' all.  
  
No. Fuck you. Sagara turned away, stalking down the hall towards the claims office' as Saito had so merrily put it. He did not want to speak with that skinny son of a bitch Sawagejo, much less drink with him. He wanted his 10,00 euros, and then he wanted to go home.   
  
It occurred to him, as he walked, that his allotment of purified water for the month was almost depleted. There was maybe a shower or two left, if he sent his laundry out to be done, which he always did. Sagara liked a long shower when he could get it - if he could get it - so he didn't mind paying extra for laundry service if it meant more bathing water . . . He sighed heavily. Well, he only had a week left before he could get more clean water. He could always go for a day or two without a bath - not like there was anyone around to smell him. The vampires didn't seem to care what the hell he smelled like, as long as, underneath it all, he still smelled like blood . . .   
  
  
  
  
There hadn't been a time in years when he hadn't felt _something_. There was always a shared sensation. His line was old enough and long enough that he could always sense one of his kinsmen somewhere. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, there lingered the joy of someone's kill, the pain of death, the hunger, the darkness of sleep. He lived for it, really, in his old age.   
  
Those kinsmen, they showed him that he was still alive, if not in the strictest sense. He was old enough to forget that, once, he had been young. It was even easier to forget that he had once been mortal.  
  
His bloodline spanned across the globe - a respectable blood line. There was always something to hone in one, someone's emotion. Now, two individual but not unsimilar sensations were pushing their way to the front of his mind . . .   
  
Distantly, he could feel that one of his far-removed blood relations had died. He could feel, very vaguely, like the tingling of pins and needles, the fire heating that trace of his own blood as the corpse was burned. That was nothing new. The death had not been painless, but it wasn't torture, either. It was hardly a twinge to the old vampire, the creature was so distant a relative.  
  
But more distinct was the pain of one of his children. If he closed his eyes - He knew which one, now.   
  
That idiot, he muttered into the silence of the darkened, dusty room. That damn idiot...  
  
That boy would have to learn someday. His favorite son . . . The old one wondered how the boy had survived so long without going insane. Even he, the oldest vampire left on earth, didn't keep his mind as open as that boy.  
  
But Kenshin - Oh, Kenshin, Kenshin, Kenshin . . . He let himself feel every pain, every ecstasy, of their bloodline. Why? He'd had never been able to figure it out. Maybe for the same reason he, himself, did so - But if that was the case, the boy needed to quit taking things so personally.  
  
He sighed. For all his complaining, it really did worry him. With Kenshin, everything was more immediate. Usually, he had to shut Kenshin's multitude of sensations out. Right now, he couldn't seem to bring himself to do so. His child, one of the most delicate and precious, was in pain because, the elder knew, he was feeling his kinsman's death, too. Kenshin picked up on everything - strongly, at that. That was the truth, had always been the truth. It was simply the way the boy was. Not that it made it any easier on his progenitor's nerves . . .  
  
Ah, but the truth was, things were changing. There were things in the world changing, stirring, waking up or dying. The lone vampire didn't know which it was, but he could feel it in his blood. There were more of them, now. More of his kinsmen - more vampires, in general. He had a feeling that it was partly Katsura's doing - if not entirely so.  
  
Like insects, he muttered. The sound bounced dully off the walls, and he realized that he'd said it aloud. The words, spoken out loud, sounded ridiculous, and he couldn't help but chuckle. He looked out the dusty window, out at the shifting night sky, shaking his head. There was a time, he told himself, when I said that about humans . . . But they're no different from us. We're all monsters.  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes:   
Wow. I wrote petite vampire. I think I have to go die now.  
Is the last part too confusing?! I'm afraid it might be . . . You'll find out soon who Kenshin's _real_ Master is . . . That is to say, his sire. Heehee.  
Long chapter this time. It started out being far too short, but then - this. Oh, well. How was it?! Please tell me!  
Ah-! Hugs to reviewers:  
Fitz - I'm glad you like it! And, no, you shouldn't know what the percentages are about. Why? Because I haven't explained it. Suffice to say that in this new administration, it's a way of ranking physical perfection.' You have to be over a certain percentage to live. I think it will get explained in more detail soon. Hope that helped a little, and please keep with me!  
FarStrider - Hi!!!!  
Oryo - Heehee! Well, OK. Katsura's not quite Antonio . . . More like Lestat, really, I think, cause Armand in the Interview with a Vampire movie was too too hissy and goth. Katsura is very, very elegant and composed - unless he's mad. ::Snicker.::  
Please continue to review! Thank youuuuuuuu!!!  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

  
  
  
  


Chapter Five  


  
  
  
Sagara stood in the shower, wasting his water yet again. He was lucky, he knew, that he had a large income. Otherwise, his love of long showers would seldom be indulged.  
  
He'd decided, however, that he deserved this. On the most practical level, he often needed to wash the blood away. Whether it was his own, or that of a vampire, was another matter, and often one he refused to contemplate.  
  
It had been just six months since he began his work for the administration. Six months of killing every night. And not just killing normal men - killing supernatural monsters that he could hardly believe existed, at times. In the daytime, the a vampire seemed, even to him, an absurd idea. But at night, when he was face-to-face with one, he could not deny that they were all too real.  
  
Sometimes, Sagara wondered how he had survived this long. His training was still rudimentary - Shakku Arai was still missing and presumed dead, although Sawagejo refused to believe it. It was often his experience from life on the street that kept Sagara alive, not his training in the basement of Tokyo Haven's police headquarters.  
  
It was bloody, disgusting work, he had to admit, but it paid well, and allowed him a certain amount of freedom. For the time being, he knew he would not give this up for anything.  
  
Sagara turned up the hot water, and scrubbed soap into his dark, wet hair, closing his eyes. Images of various fights flashed before his eyes, and, as he often did, he tried to reenact his memories, improving his technique. He had made it his rule that every time he remembered his fights with vampires, he had to use them as training material, to sharpen his skills. Because, if he simply thought too long on all the death he had witnessed in the past months, he knew he would probably go crazy.  
  
  
  
  
His hair fanned out around his face like feathers, moving fluidly. Those dark eyes were open wide with terror, mouth pressed tightly shut. He wouldn't last much longer. His face was turning red, and his dull eyes couldn't get any larger . . .  
  
Sohjiro giggled. It was funny how fragile the old man was. He had the look of a hardened criminal about him, but all Sohjiro, who has practically half his size, had to do was push him under the water and, soon enough, his struggling stopped and his body went limp.  
  
This man had killed so many vampires in his day, had facilitated the deaths of so many more. It made Sohjiro happy to think that he was dying so easily. The hand the man had clamped around his wrist with bruising strength was now lax. The dark-haired vampire smiled slowly, noticing that the mortal's eyes were rolled back in his head. His struggle had stopped a while ago, his thrashing subsiding into weak wriggling. Now he was well and dead, but that didn't mean Sohjiro was finished with him.  
  
He pulled the man out of the water, cradling his body in strong, thin arms. The man's brown hair stuck to his waxy, wet forehead, plastered to his skull. Lukewarm water ran down his body, over his neck, out of his hair, dripping from his clothes, soaking through Sohjiro's pants and shirt. With the pads of his slender fingers, Sohjiro swept the man's hair away from his face, out of his eyes, the touch gentle, reminding him of the way his Master would sometimes touch him.  
  
Sohjiro bowed his head over that lean neck, smiling. The skin beneath his lips was a little rough with the beginnings of a beard, the skin a little loose and textured. He, Sohjiro, would never be like this - never be old and unattractive. He would never get old and die. Curling back his smiling lips, Sohjiro tore a deep gouge in the dead man's neck.  
  
Bright blood, already cooling, spilled over his imperfect skin. The dark-haired vampire watched for a moment, and then pressed his mouth to the wound.  
  
There was no taste for Sohjiro - his tongue was gone. But food was food, whether or not he could taste it. The taste of blood wasn't really the main point, in any case, the dark-haired vampire thought as the man's blood ran past Sohjiro's lips and into his mouth. He felt the energy of another creature's life surge through him, warm, strong, complete. The point was power - power over another living thing, power over death. And it was so-  
  
A woman screamed. Sohjiro's head snapped up from the dead man's neck, and he twisted around to look at the figure behind him. Yumi. He sighed and dropped the corpse, because it was bleeding all over him and he didn't like being able to smell what he couldn't have. He refused to eat in front of Yumi, the bitch.  
  
Yumi was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and angry, her bare shoulders tense. Her black dress swished over the tile floor of the bath as she marched towards him, the clicking of her heels on the tile floor of the bath muffled by layers of cloth.  
  
Her hand closed around the collar of his unfastened straitjacket, and she lifted him to his feet. Once he was standing, she turned him around forcibly and slapped him. What do you think you're doing? she seethed, pretty face twisted in self-righteous anger. Sohjiro growled at her, baring his blood-stained teeth. Yumi slapped him again, and pushed him back. He flailed, and tripped over the man's corpse, falling into the full bath with an angry scream.  
  
The purple-haired vampire gathered up her skirts in both hand, freeing her legs, and kicked the heavy corpse into the pool. It landed on Sohjiro's legs, perpendicular to him, and, with it, a cloud of blood diffused into the water, turning it all a pale, rosy pink. Sohjiro screamed again, kicking the corpse away from him, thinking that he would kill Yumi - he would kill the miserable bitch and have Shishio to himself!  
  
You weren't supposed to touch him, Sohjiro, Yumi snapped, glaring at the young vampire. The Gentleman's orders. He was supposed to be _alive_. Again Sohjiro growled, but Yumi seemed unmoved, her eyes hard. Do you think Lord Shishio will be pleased? No, he won't be - Not in the least. Yumi would see the angry, insane gleam in Sohjiro's blue eyes, the hatred for her curling there. He would never be able to say it, but she knew. It was continual and terrible, a serpent biting its own tail, an unspoken threat, the promise that someday, the dam would be opened and he would bring her down. I hope he kills you, she spat, sneering. And she did. She hoped Sohjiro the ugliest sort of death possible, because he was _Shishio's_. His blood ran in that little degenerate's veins, Shishio had turned him into a vampire, and that was something Yumi could never have.  
  
Now get up, she said. The Gentleman has called a meeting, and Lord Shishio wants us both there. You don't want to displease him further, do you?   
  
Sohjiro rose, his lip curled up in resentful anger, and stepped out of the pool. His straitjacket was stained slightly pink from the man's blood, and even more rosy water fell to the tile floor. He stood stone still, muscles tense, as Yumi yanked his arms back into position and fastened the straitjacket. She clipped a chain leash to the a ring on the collar of the jacket, and dragged him out of the room. They left the corpse behind in the pool, the door slamming behind them.  
  
Yumi maneuvered them through the relative labyrinth of the Gentleman's underground complex. Shishio's private quarters were on the sixth floor down. The seventh has been unoccupied for several years, but had once belonged to Shinsaku Takasugi, the Gentleman's previous second-in-command. Takasugi had been dead for a long time, but the Gentleman held to his ghost like some sort of lifeline.  
  
The purple-haired vampire sneered in disgust. Takasugi had been a fool, and so easily killed, by a mere mortal, at that. And their leader was even more the fool for grieving for him. Yumi hated the Gentleman for his stupidity, and because he lay in the path of her Lord Shishio's ascension. Did Shishio serve the Gentleman? She didn't think so. To her Lord, their leader was little more than the means to and end - and end in which Shishio took the Gentleman's place as supreme ruler of the world.  
  
As they neared the third floor down, where the Gentleman habitually held his audiences, she spotted the very man of whom she'd been thinking. He was standing just outside the large mahogany doors, waiting for them. To Yumi, he was beautiful, although he was deformed in irreparable ways. His skin was uneven, discoloured, lumpy like melted wax, and his right cheekbone looked as though it had caved in. As a result, the entire side of his face sagged, had always sagged, and had been immortalized that way, so that it would always sag.  
  
Where have you been? Shishio asked, his firm, if slightly drooping, mouth set in a scowl.  
  
Sohjiro got himself in trouble again, Yumi say, relinquishing the hold of the leash to her Lord.  
  
Shishio's moods were always surprising. Now, he startled Yumi by issuing a sharp, short laugh as he yanked the slender boy towards him. A sort of dry, dangerous humour shone in his red eyes as he cupped Sohjiro's pale, damp cheek, brushing dark hair away from his skin. Sohjiro leaned against him, the dampness of his straitjacket transferring to the dark cloth of Shishio's waistcoat. What did you do this time, pet?  
  
Sohjiro giggled, smiling up at his Master, and the expression of adoration that crossed Shishio's face made Yumi sick. He killed Shakku Arai, she said, eyes boring holes into Sohjiro's narrow back.  
  
Shishio laughed. Did he? he asked Yumi. She couldn't find a voice to reply. He'd laughed - Shishio had laughed at her. At her silence, he turned to the boy. Did you? Sohjiro nodded, water dripping from his hair. Shishio laughed again. The Gentleman won't like it, he said, his mottled lips turned up in a wide grin. He patted Sohjiro's cheek. But I'm certainly nothing less than pleased.  
  
With a short, frustrated screech, Yumi stormed into the conference room. Shishio and Sohjiro followed shortly, but Yumi did not care at all. They could both go to hell for all she cared at that moment. Both of them.  
  
So glad to see you could join us, the Gentleman said, a little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He was seated on his throne on the dais, his heavy, black cloak spilling down and spreading over the floor like an oil spill.   
  
Shishio bit back a snarl and took his seat in the first row of the congregation. Behind him, the mob of vampires shifted uneasily, ready for the speech to commence.  
  
The Gentleman's left hand rested atop the his whore's head, fingers sliding through her black hair. She was strikingly beautiful, and smelled so much of life that every vampire in the huge ballroom looked at her hungrily whenever she shifted. She sat at the Gentleman's feet, quiet, respectful, but still proud, bearing up under the myriad stares. She was, after all, the only human who was allowed free reign of the passages of the Gentleman's layer. All the others were locked in the dungeons, for eventual consumption, but she was the Gentleman's. He and only he controlled her, and it was by his power that she was allowed to wander in the basement structure.  
  
To his right, curled like a true faithful dog, was the brat. The sight of him, with his red head bowed, his eyes searching the crowd through thick, dark lashes, disgusted Shishio. The redhead was the Gentleman's _other_ whore, the one who would never die. _He makes himself out to be so humble,_ Shishio thought contemptuously, _but there is not a modest bone in his body._ And it was the truth. The brat had absolutely no modesty, displaying his perfect body shamelessly amidst legions of deformed creatures. _Someone,_ Shishio vehemently believed, _should teach that brat a lesson._  
  
Kenshin watched as Shishio sat down in his heavy, wing-backed chair, with Yumi standing at his side, mute Sohjiro curled up at his feet. He watched the rage in Shishio's bright eyes, directed first at his Master, then at dear, frail Ikumatsu, and then at he, himself. Kenshin knew Shishio hated him virulently. He could feel Shishio's disgust for him in his own veins, sometimes, it was so strong. But he did not concern himself with it. It was more Ikumatsu that worried him. She, too, knew that her Lord's second-in-command had a great hatred for her. And Kenshin felt it bear down heavily on her, like the other vampires' blood lust weighed down on her. It frightened her, weakened her day by day. The most distressing thing, however, was his Master's oblivion to the matter. Not only did he refuse to believe that Shishio hated his two lovers, but he did not see Shishio's hatred for him, himself. Katsura continued to believe that Shishio was as loyal as he had even been, while Kenshin, himself, had doubts that Shishio's intentions had ever been entirely honest.  
  
He felt, rather than saw, his lover, the Gentleman, rise. He felt it in the bond they had, one that comes from sharing much blood and many years. Then he felt the cloak, long and heavy like the dark of night, shift and slip as Katsura stood.  
  
Fellow heroes, he said, his deep voice ringing out, clear and commanding, over the ball room, we have gathered here as only a small fraction of our true force. We are stronger than the humans could ever imagine - stronger, smarter, with an intricate web of power that reaches further than they can comprehend. Even their precious administration is not as well connected as our network.  
  
Katsura smiled slightly, looking out at the sea of twisted, deformed faces. None of this should surprise you. As the superior creatures, it should be no great shock that we have left the humans behind in the dust. So, now, let me tell you the _real_ story.  
  
He took a step forward, the cloak, which was pinned to the shoulders of his black jacket with two huge, silver snake brooches, slithered over the smooth, marble floor of the dais. His self-satisfied smile was reflected in his dark eyes.  
  
We live in an imperfect world. This was met with a swell of noise as the crowd muttered their begrudging agreement. Katsura held up a hand, and waited until it was stone-silent before continuing. He did not have to wait long.  
  
This age is a brutal one, where the members of the Pacifist World Administration are no less murderers than convicted criminals. What else could an organization be, besides a coven of murderers, that authorizes the execution of millions of people ever year? _They are monsters_, more so than any of us, because they claim to be righteous.  
  
Long, long ago, a group of men conspired to end the world. They did not succeed, but they _did_ decimate vast portions of the globe. The violence they perpetrated left the world in shambles. Instead of shunning those villains, I thank them, for they have set the stage for our rise to power.  
  
The mob erupted, cheering, stamping their feet, whistling. The noise ruled until it became evident that the Gentleman had more to say. The silence that followed was absolute.  
  
In the wake of such global destruction, a group of leaders - pacifists' - rose up, and led the survivors into a new era. An era that the people of earth believed would be peaceful to the extreme. Actions were taken to eliminate the use of weapons of mass destruction, to increase lifespan, rid the human race of disease.  
  
All of us gathered here were once human. Isn't that a beautiful vision? Peace, security, food, health, freedom, happiness? Isn't that a dream come true? The tall man paused, studying the faces of his rapt audience. Isn't it too bad, he continued, that such a vision is nothing more than wishful thinking?  
  
An overwhelming chorus of, echoed through the ballroom, making the crystal chandelier tremble slightly.  
  
This age that we live in is a brutal one - far from the peaceful ideal the regime wishes to embody. Under the Pacifist World Administration's governance, the elect live in comfort while those who cannot live up to the official standards are killed.   
  
These are pacifists,' my friends. These are men who claim to want the best for every soul on this planet.  
  
No! These are men who have implemented laws that discriminate against the ill and the deformed, against the weak and the innocent. With the interests of society at large in mind, the administration has created a physical exam that condemns ten to fifteen percent of the global population to death. How? If I am a fifteen-year-old boy, and I do not score a ninety-seven percent or above on my medical examination, I am _exterminated._ Ten to fifteen _percent_ of fifteen-year-olds are _exterminated_ every year, because the administration considers them an official health risk.  
  
How many good people have been murdered by these monsters? Over the past centuries? Innumerable innocents have died at the government's hands. _Far more_, in fact, than we have killed. Can you believe it, friends? _Vampires_, the creatures of the dark, do not kill as many humans as the administration.  
  
Kenshin watched Katsura, his proud expression, the fervent love for his cause that burned in his eyes. But do not be fooled, the handsome leader warned the feverish mob. Just as they are not truly righteous, nor are we. But we have one stark distinction.  
  
_We are superior._ My fellows, we have found the answer to every question the mortals ask. We have eliminated the threat of disease, and made the chance of death a mere joke. We are faster, stronger, smarter, than the humans could ever hope to be - medical engineering or no.  
  
It was once said that the weak would inherit the earth, and here we are - The weak, the outnumbered, the hunted and hated, made strong, lifted out of subjugation. And it is finally time we fulfilled that prophecy!  
  
The noise in the great ballroom was building. The excitement was almost a taste in Kenshin's mouth, almost a scent rising like the strongest perfume. It was intoxicating and almost frightening in its sheer power.  
  
It is time for us to rise up and take our rightful place at the top of the world's hierarchy! Our day is coming, my friends, and you will all be party to its glory! Wear your badges with pride and do not turn from the darkness - Because we _are_ the darkness, of the same mysterious origins as the great prophecy that will allow our ascension!  
  
Listen for my word, you heroes of the night! Watch for the sign that the true revolution will begin!  
  
For a moment, the hall was silent, Katsura's words echoing and dissipated in the air. And then, a scream rose in every throat in that crowd, filling the ballroom with the unholy sound of hundreds of vampires' joy. They applauded, screamed for their leader, bared their souls for the cause in that moment.  
  
Kenshin smiled, and rose, slipping away from the dais in the midst of the jubilant chaos. Katsura had put his legions in the mindset for battle, but before they could fight, the final arrangements had to be made.   
  
Kenshin and Katsura knew that there was one, final warrior left who had yet to join the darkness. It was Kenshin's job, they had determined, to win him to their side. With that in mind, Kenshin exited the ballroom, making his way to his private chambers. He had a phone call to make.  
  
  
  
Notes!  
OK - I think there might be a couple quickie-type notes here . . .  
_Fitz_ - I hope this cleared up some of your confusion. _FarStrider_ - Make any more sense now? (What does it say about my crappy writing that all my notes are, like, Hey, sorry this doesn't make any sense!?) _Oryo_ - Hi! ::Giggle.:: _Clarus_ - Thank you for the fabulous beta-job! I love and worship your coolness.  
::Sways back and forth.:: Katsuuuura is a psyyyyychoooo! ::Giggle.:: Yep. They're all crazy. Sohjiro's batty (Oh, wait, you didn't get? My bad!), Shishio's a megalomaniacal freak, Katsura's just plain crazy, Okita's a nympho, Sagara's gonna be driven mad with all this death and destruction (Well, that's how it _looks_ right now, at least!), Saito's a bit bonkers, Yumi is a jealous, obsessive bitch and - Who am I missing? Oh. Kenshin. Well, Kenshin's a bit of a nympho, a bit of a freak - Gosh, Kenshin's just all-around weird, no matter how you look at it.  
Coming soon:  
Aoshi, Misao, a vampire club, some real interaction between the two leads, and, if you couldn't guess, more yaoi.  
Pleeeeaaaase review!   
I love you all!  
  
_SnM  
  
  
_


	6. Chapter 6

  
  
  
  
  
Sagara turned off the taps, and stepped out of the glass shower stall. He snagged a towel off the shelf, scrubbing his skin dry before wrapping the towel around his waist.   
  
In the foggy mirror, he was nothing more than a dark smudge. Once he'd wiped away the condensation, he wondered if maybe he shouldn't have. He looked tired, worked over. He had a fading bruise on his left cheekbone, left by a vampire who'd gotten hold of a crowbar a few weeks ago. He was lucky he hadn't been moving forward, or else the bone might've been entirely crushed. He wasn't sleeping well, and he knew exactly why, but it didn't really matter. Sleeping was something he didn't really do much of, anyway. He liked to keep himself busy.  
  
He was running a comb through his wet hair when he heard something beeping. Steam rolled out of the bathroom when he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. He followed the noise into the living room, and then he saw the blinking light on the answering machine. Apparently, someone had called while he was in the shower.  
  
The machine beeped once when he pressed the Play' button. You have one new message, and sixteen old messages, it informed him. _Gotta delete some of those,_ he said to himself. It had been a while since he'd taken care of things around the flat.  
  
Following another beep, there was a brief crackle, and then a low, quiet voice came over the line. Mr. Sagara . . . I would like very much to meet you. Tonight, if at all possible. There are some things I should like to speak to you about. It's 10:47 right now, and I will be at a club called the Aoi in the Old Strip District until three this morning. When you arrive, don't look for me - I'll find you. There was another bit of static, and a click.  
  
Another beep, an electronic, End of messages, and a final beep.  
  
Sagara stared blankly across his living room. The man on the machine was entirely foreign to him. He'd never heard that person's voice before. For a moment, he'd thought that maybe it was Okita, who he'd run into occasionally in recent months, mostly through Saito's doing. But by the time the message was over, he was sure it wasn't the pretty hooker. There was always some strain of desperation on Okita's voice . . . He never sounded so - cool. Sagara replayed the message, but he still didn't recognize the person on the other end of the line.  
  
The Old Strip District was a run-down place, all pre-Restoration warehouses that were the home to numerous nightclubs, pool halls, strip joints, and the like. Unlike the New Strip District, which was predominantly newly constructed buildings situated in a relatively respectable sector of Tokyo Haven, people considered the Old District to be dangerous. And the Aoi, he knew via the police files, was a vampire club.  
  
He'd never been in the Aoi, of course, because most people who valued their lives wouldn't set foot in a place like that. Even if the general populous was ignorant to the existence of vampires, they knew enough to realize that the Aoi was trouble.  
  
But, even armed with his knowledge of vampires, Sagara wasn't really intimidated by the concept of a vampire club. He knew that he probably shouldn't meet whoever it was that had left the message. But he couldn't really seem to care . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
Although the moon had been out when he'd left his apartment, the clouds had once again closed over the sky, bearing down heavily. The night was cool, and, as usual, damp, and the air smelled like rotting things.  
  
There was no line outside the Aoi. The dirty cement stairs down to the basement club were littered with cigarette butts and other bits of trash. At the bottom of the stairs, Sagara leaned forward and pounded on the thick, metal door with his fist. It opened, and a short, lanky man with tan skin and bleached hair stood looking down at him. His eyes narrowed, and he studied Sagara for a long moment before stepping back to allow him in.  
  
Sagara walked past the bouncer, into the poorly-lit hallway. The bouncer reeked of death - he just screamed _Vampire!_ to Sagara. But the dark-haired hunter just kept walking, even when he heard the door slam behind him.  
  
The floor of the passage sloped gradually downwards for about fifty feet, at which point, there was another door. Sagara opened this door, and stepped down. The lights along the edges of the stairs were a bright blue, casting a dim neon glow over the otherwise black stairwell. He could hear the music clearly now, and knew it would be deafeningly loud once he was in the club, itself. Already, the bass made the soles of his feet vibrate. Sagara made his way down the steep stairs, and opened the third metal door inwards.   
  
The club was not dark. It was a dusky black, sure enough, but the strobe lights and the neon kept true darkness at bay. The smoky air was laced with the scent of death, blood, and liquor. Sagara slitted his eyes and watched the mob. They were gyrating, throbbing, stomping, spinning to the overwhelmingly loud music. Sagara almost wanted to close his eyes against the chaos before him.  
  
To his right, stretching along a good portion of the wall, there was a bar. It was crowded with people, mostly clad in black and leather. There were five bartenders that Sagara could see, all attractive young women, and they were all moving pretty much nonstop, mixing drinks or talking to customers. In the far corner, to his left, there was an elevated platform. A DJ had his turntables set up and beside that there were several tables and couches, all peopled by more club patrons. Sagara thought he could see some doors against the back wall, but he couldn't be sure. The rest of the space was more or less entirely filled by dancers.   
  
Sagara knew that not all these patrons were human. The smell of them, which he'd become very accustomed to in recent months, was overpowering. Worse still, he could smell human blood. There were vampires feeding in that crush of bodies, on the sofas, probably in the back rooms, if they existed. The hunter knew that, if he looked closely enough, he would be able to see them. Instead of doing so, Sagara started to push his way through the crowd, keeping to the fringes, forcing a path between hot, twisting bodies.  
  
The bar, although it was crowded, seemed like an oasis. He couldn't think of anything he wanted more than stiff drink. He paused a moment to glory in the strange beauty of Tokyo Haven, that so much alcohol was so easily available. Some part of his mind sensed trouble - all vampires in one place made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. That same part of his brain tried to tell him that he shouldn't drink, that there might be a fight, and he wouldn't be able to fight as well if we were drunk. But he seldom listened to the sensible part of his mind.  
  
What'll it be? asked one of the bartenders. She was short and a little too cute, with a hell of a lot of dark hair. Like the other women behind the bar, she was dressed in stylish, black clothes.  
  
Just a beer, Sagara said after a moment's deliberation. Best imported. One of the boons of his business deal with the police was that he could afford to suffer in luxury.  
  
She looked a little like he'd insulted her grandmother. All we _have_ is imported, she replied. She turned around, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. It snaked through the air, whiplike, and Sagara had to lean back to avoid being hit in the face with it. A moment later, the young woman turned back around, and slid a bottle of beer across the bar. He tossed a few Euros across the bar.  
  
A moment of silence passed while Sagara took the first sip of his beer. The bartender lingered, and he couldn't help but wonder what she was waiting for. Finally, she spoke up. You're new here, right?  
  
  
  
The girl glanced out at the crowded club, then down the bar, and, finally, back at Sagara. Well, in that case, I oughta tell you the rules. First off, you'll want t-  
  
- That won't be necessary, Misao. Sagara turned around to face the man who had interrupted the bartender. He was huge, more than a full head taller than Sagara, himself, and very thin. He, too, was dressed entirely in black, his dark hair falling in his pale face. Sagara stared into the man's stormy eyes, and found that he was just a little intimidated.  
  
the bartender said, her tone tense. _So_, Sagara thought with a little surprise, _this is Aoshi._ Aoshi Shinomori, the club's proprietor, and, from everything he'd heard, a ruthless killer when the opportunity presented itself. Most every criminal in the city - and who wasn't a criminal in Tokyo Haven? - was impressed by Shinomori, if not a little afraid of him. Looking at the man, Sagara could see why.  
  
You have an admirer, Mr. Sagara, Aoshi said coolly. He'd like to meet with you. Follow me.  
  
_This is ridiculous_, Sagara thought as he pushed away from the bar. He followed Shinomori silently, studying the crowd, trying to get a better feel for the place. If a real fight broke out, what could be used to his advantage? On all sides, the stench of vampires welled up like cigarette smoke, pungent and thick. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a couple dancing, of the trickle of blood running down the girl's neck. Disgusted, he turned his head, and kept his eyes on Shinomori's broad shoulders.  
  
At length, they'd made their way through the crush, past the DJ's platform, to the cluster of tables. Seated alone at one of the small tables was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Shinomori was leading him right towards her table, and, before they reached their destination, Sagara had realized just who that woman was. She was, in fact, not a woman at all, but his admirer,' the same man who had left the message on his answering machine earlier.  
  
As quickly as he'd appeared, Shinomori faded back into the crowd, leaving Sagara standing in front of the table. The handsome man leaned forward, his airy, red hair falling forward into his face. Why don't you sit down, Mr. Sagara? he asked. His voice was just as smooth, as cool, as it had been on Sagara's machine.  
  
The hunter sat down and studied the man across the table from him. It was easy to see how he could be mistaken for a woman. His vibrant red hair was long, hanging loose past his narrow shoulders. He looked young - sixteen at the most. There was still a telltale softness in his cheeks, and his mouth was too sweet to have been thinned with age. That mouth was a dark, dark red, and his eyes looked like black holes, they were so heavily made up. Sagara could not make out the color of his eyes, but they stared at him with keen interest.  
  
There was something lingering under the subtle scent of perfume, something Sagara could not quite place. He did not seem distinctly vampiric, although his nearly translucent skin pointed in the opposite direction. For the moment, Sagara decided, it was all right to stick around, so long as he played it safe. Innocent until proven guilty, as the old adage went. Maybe there would be no hell raised tonight. He doubted it, but a man is allowed to hope, at least.  
  
I'm glad you came, the redhead said finally. I thought you might not.  
  
Yeah, well - I'm still not clear on why I'm here, Sagara replied, crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
He smiled sweetly. I think you're here because you want to know what I have to say . . .  
  
In that case, I'm listening.  
  
The youth took a small sip from a shot glass of clear liquid. Sagara's eyes watched his mouth on the glass, and he studied the small crescent of blood-red lipstick left on the rim as he lowered the glass to the table. You can call me Kenshin, by the way, he offered.  
  
Is that your name? Sagara asked, lifting an eyebrow.   
  
An enigmatic smile crossed Kenshin's lips. Yes and no. But you can call me that all the same. He let out a short sigh. I'd like you to know that I've had my eye on you for some while, Sanosuke.   
  
Sagara snorted briefly. That so?  
  
Mmm . . . Yes, indeed. Kenshin's dark eyes were fixed only on him, and it was becoming increasingly intense. And I couldn't help but notice that several other people are quite interested in you, as well . . .  
  
What can I say? Sagara quipped. I'm in-demand.  
  
Kenshin laughed lightly, a sweet, pleasant sound that barely reached Sagara's ears past the pounding music. That certainly seems to be the case. He paused for a moment. I won't say that I've come to make you an offer you can't refuse, because you're quite free to refuse it, if you like. But it's my hope, as well as the hope of my associates, so to speak, that you _will_ be interested.  
  
An offer . . . Sagara watched as Kenshin's pale, slender fingers slowly turned his shot glass round and round. His dark eyes, the bounty hunter noted, were now downcast, fixed on the glass, his long lashed lowered.  
  
Kenshin looked back up, his gaze just as intense as before. Yes. An offer. A partnership, of sorts. You, Mr. Sagara, are a highly desirable person. It's no coincidence that so many people have expressed an interest in you of late. You have a very unique combination of relentless drive, intelligence, skill, and honor that are important in these times . . . But what my associates and I see in you is something above and beyond all this, something which I highly doubt the Chief of Police recognizes. That, of course, is that you have the strength in you to accept huge responsibilities . . . You could be a great man, if you wanted.  
  
What if I told you that's not what I want? Sagara asked curtly.  
  
I would believe you, Kenshin replied. He smiled, looking for all the world as if he had just been bested in a game by a clever opponent. I should have known better. No, you don't want the world. You aren't that sort of man. But I know what you do want. And I can tell you that, in your current position, you can't fulfill the revenge you seek.  
  
Revenge? What makes you think I'm _that_ kind of man?  
  
What are you doing here in Tokyo Haven, then, Sanosuke? You're surely not here for your health? Nor are you here of your own free will. Circumstances forced you here, and I know you want retribution for the wrongs that were done against you.  
  
Sagara snarled. You don't know what the hell you're talking about, all right?   
  
Don't I? Kenshin asked, cool as ever, his shadowed gaze burning into Sagara. I rather think I do. He tipped his head to the side, his red hair falling down and pooling on the tabletop. Your brother . . .  
  
Leave him out of this, he snapped.  
  
How do you reconcile such injustice? You work for the same people who killed your brother, for the same people who have slaughtered millions of innocent people . . . just because they weren't perfect.  
  
What the fuck is this? Sagara pushed back his chair and stood, preparing to leave.  
  
Kenshin's arm shot out, covering Sagara's broader, coarser hand with his own fine-boned one. His silver rings were cool against the hunter's flushed skin. Kenshin said, his voice no longer so composed. He sounded more honest than he had before, more human. I was only asking. Please don't leave yet.   
  
Sagara looked down at the slim redhead. As he did so, the lights flashed bright, and he caught sight of Kenshin's eyes for the first time. They were a stunning violet color, and, at the moment, they expressed what seemed to be heartfelt sympathy.  
  
I'm sorry I offended you, Kenshin said. Please don't go.  
  
The dark-haired man let out a sigh, and sat down again. There was something about the younger man's demeanor that was very convincing. He felt as if, just maybe, Kenshin meant what he was saying.  
  
I really am sorry, Kenshin said, his tone subdued. I meant it, though. It isn't fair to you, that you're betraying your beliefs. Doesn't it trouble you?  
  
Of course it does. Sagara wouldn't help but notice that Kenshin had not moved his hand. It was not an unpleasant position to be in, really.  
  
The youth cocked his head thoughtfully. Then why do you do it?  
  
'Cause it's the right thing to do, I guess, Sagara replied. For the greater good. The other guys . . . They're wrong.  
  
Do you care about all the people in the free world, Sanosuke? Do they care about you, those people in free cities, who can go wherever they want, who are   
  
Does it matter.  
  
Why wouldn't it? Kenshin asked. You shouldn't have to be a martyr for their sake.  
  
Sagara rolled his eyes. I liked you better when I was threatening to leave.  
  
A genuine smile crossed the redhead's lips. You can't deny that I make a valid point.  
  
Maybe you do, Sagara said. I'm willing to agree to that much. His expression darkened. But it's a damn selfish one.  
  
Kenshin nodded, and he seemed pleased by this accusation. Yes, you're very right.  
  
The two fell silent for a time. The music throbbed around them, the noise of the dancers swelling beneath it. Kenshin took another sip from his drink, and Sagara watched his face as it was distorted and tinted by the light patterns. Presently, Sagara felt Kenshin's hand lift, and he looked down. Kenshin traced his cool fingers over the man's knuckles and the backs of his hands. Sagara looked back up, catching the redhead's eye.  
  
Kenshin smiled slightly. Dance with me?  
  
Sagara studied his expression for a moment. Then he stood, taking Kenshin's hand.   
  
  
  
It was near sunrise when Sagara finally left the Aoi, Kenshin's taste on his lips. The Old Strip District looked sad in the dim light of very early morning. The buildings were flimsy, gun-shot riddled structures. The pavement was cracked, blasted apart, or generally just dirty.  
  
Sagara, however, was paying little attention to the city around him. His mind was working at top speed, trying to sort things out. Kenshin - he was . . . Well, he was devastatingly beautiful, for one. But, more importantly, he was obviously a member of a hard-core underground group. And what was worse, Kenshin's associates' seemed very interested in having Sagara, himself, under their thumb.  
  
Kenshin seemed to know what Sagara was up to, seemed to know most of his personal history, or at least enough to fake the rest. It was disturbing. Sagara did not share his story with people. He knew there had to be official documentation about his family, about himself and his brother. That Chief Saito had access to information about him was not surprising. But if Kenshin really was with some contraband group, then it was a testament to their strength and organization that they had the same information as did the Chief of Police.  
  
As far as the offer itself went, Sagara was entirely uninterested. He couldn't deny that he didn't always agree with the Administration, couldn't even say that liked Tokyo Haven's police force. But, as much as he pretended to be killing vampires for the money, or for the benefits, those reasons were secondary. What he'd said to Kenshin in the Aoi was true. He did think working against the Gentleman was the right thing to do, even if people in the free cities never even knew he existed. Why? Because - _The Gentleman was wrong_.  
  
  
Notes:  
Well - This was a long chapter. And it didn't quite turn out the way I thought it would, but I'm also rather pleased with it. Anyhoo.  
I think you'll probably get to learn more about Sano in coming chapters. Hm.   
_FarStrider_ (and any others who caught my stupidity) - OK, the deal was that the vampires faked Arai's death in the explosion, pretty much, and Sohjiro killed him later, in the pool. That was badly explained, I know. Originally, Cho was supposed express doubts about his death, and badmouth the vampires a bit more . . . But - he didn't. So. I apologize. A lot.  
One more note - Gracious thanks to Miss Clarus-sempai-sama-dono for her kind editing, once again. *Hugs Clarus.*  
Um . . . Review . . . Please? ::Makes like a cute little kitten.::  
  
! _SnM  
  
  
_


	7. Chapter 7

  
  
  


Chapter Seven  


  
  
  
Early morning in the office of Tokyo Haven's Chief of Police. Outside, the streets were still relatively quiet; though the sun had risen and the vampires had retired to their basements and windowless rooms, the humans of Tokyo Haven were not yet swarming the streets. The police station, as well, was singularly quiet, the only noise that of the generators and the occasional sound from the containment facilities.  
  
The stillness, however, was deceptive. Chief Hajime Saito felt little peace as he sat under the fluorescent lights, looking at Cho Sawagejo's pale face. He felt, instead, a sort of raw anticipation that permeated all the time he spent in this office, as well as most of the time he spent elsewhere.   
  
There was no doubt in Saito's mind that something was building. Slowly, steadily, the Gentleman was building up supporters, and probably not just in Tokyo Haven. Soon, something would happen. A fight would break out between the police and the Gentleman's legion of vampires, and Saito knew that it would not end there, if Tokyo Haven were taken. He took some solace in one key resource, which might mean peace, if it were correctly tapped. The problem was, Saito, though clever, didn't know how to manage such a feat.  
  
So, look, Chief, Sawagejo finally said, I was kinda pissed you called me so early. I mean, there I am, all nice and cozy in bed with my girlfriend, and you ring me up, and all of a sudden I gotta get up and come into work on a Saturday mornin'. So, sorry if I sound a little snappish, but I'm kinda wonderin' what the hell this is all about.  
  
Saito sighed. I'm concerned about Sagara.  
  
Yeah, he's a little bit - y'know, Cho said, tipping his hand from side to side. I mean, he's a good guy an' all, but maybe a little weird, if you catch my drift.  
  
The Chief snorted. Sawagejo, I'd appreciate if you kept that sort of commentary to yourself. A pause. I hope you realize that we are on the verge of a major crisis, here. Not just for this city, but for the entire world.  
  
No shit, Chief. I'm not stupid, y'know. Cho looked his superior in the eye. We're workin' on it. There are only so many vampires you can kill in a day. Sagara's a big help, but he's no super hero.  
  
I got word from the Administration, Saito replied. We're to step up defense measures. I want you to start recruiting new members as quickly as possible. In the meantime, we're going to be doing some general intelligence training with the rest of the corps, so that they'll be prepared, as well. Some other cities - including Geneva, Beijing, Washington, and London - will also be doing some very basic training with their police forces, in case the Gentleman arranges for anything to happen outside Tokyo Haven.  
  
Cho scoffed. Those guys don't know shit. He glanced at the wall. They carry fuckin' stun-guns, man. They don't know shit, and they can't do shit. No damn stun-gun has even killed a vampire. Hell - they'd prob'ly think it tickled!  
  
Saito was silent for a moment. Cho had just verbalized what everyone already knew. The Administration, despite its reputation in Tokyo Haven, was not composed of fools. They, too, knew something was coming. Unlike Saito, however, they didn't know what to do about it, besides hand the problem over to someone else. Two hundred years of peace had bred generation upon generation of useless men, in Saito's opinion. Not that he didn't appreciate the peace the rest of the world enjoyed. Of course not.  
  
No, they don't know what it's like, Saito said slowly. But it's better than nothing. A moment of silence. The generators kicked in again, humming slowly. In any case - I need to talk to you about Sagara.  
  
What about him.  
  
I'm sure you know we need him. But I worry he doesn't want to further the Administration's goals.  
  
Yeah, well - You told him all this yet? Cho scrubbed his hands over his face. It was too early in the morning for so much intrigue.  
  
He knows enough.  
  
The blond laughed. I really don't know where you get off, Chief - I mean, there's reality, and then there's wherever the fuck you got off the train. Saito gave him a warning glare. I mean, we love you and all, but you gotta realize - You can't expect a guy to do what you want him to do without knowing why. Sano's the kinda guy who needs a reason, dontcha think?  
  
Saito retrieved and lit a cigarette. After holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment, he exhaled and looked sharply at Cho though the pale grey cloud. I'll tell you something, Sawagejo, and I'll thank you not to repeat it at the coffee machine. Sagara is very important to this operation. He has the strength we've been previously been lacking. But we've received information which leads us to believe that he may not be the most trust-worthy employee.  
  
Whaddya mean? Cho asked.  
  
Okita pushed off the wall, where he had been standing beside Saito's chair. One of my informants recently spotted him at the Aoi, he said, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He cocked his head to one side. I trust you know what that is.  
  
Cho said gruffly. 'Course I do.  
  
Well, then you'll know that it's not exactly the sort of place honest police operatives hang out. Okita leaned forward and slid the cigarette from between Saito's lips. Leaning his hip on the arm of the chair, he took a long drag and exhaled before continuing. We tried to do a background search on the boy Sagara met there. Nothing logical turned up. He slipped the cigarette between Saito's fingers. The only match, he said, meeting Cho's eyes, was on a boy who died almost fifty years ago.  
  
A tense silence fell between the three men, only the sound of the generators filling the space left empty by the absence of conversation.  
  
So what? Cho asked. Doesn't necessarily mean a damn thing.  
  
You seem very ready to trust Sagara, Saito said dryly. However, given the situation at hand, I can't afford it. He harbors a deep resentment for the Administration. I don't doubt that, if he were influenced properly, he would drop our cause out-right.  
  
Cho's grey eyes widened. What, and go over to the Gentleman?  
  
the Chief replied. Men like Sagara . . . Men like Sagara - perhaps - have lost faith in the goodness of other men.  
  
How can you just say shit like that? Cho asked. It seemed inconceivable.  
  
Let's just say that life has been less than kind to Sagara. Whether that's justification, in his mind, for subversive action . . . That remains to be seen.  
  
Okita smiled. In other words, he added, climbing into Saito's lap, we have to keep an eye on dear, sweet Mr. Sagara . . . He looked at Cho again, the expression in his kohl-rimmed eyes almost a challenge. Because if we don't, we'll probably be in a whole lot more trouble than anyone could ever anticipate.  
  
  
  
Someone was knocking on his door. Hold on a fucking minute! Sagara shouted, and put the partially assembled automatic rifle in a box at the foot of the bed. He swept the rest of the parts into another box, locked them both, and shoved them under the bed.  
  
There was another knock, four sharp raps. Wait, damn you! he shouted, walking through his apartment towards the door.   
  
When he opened to door, he found himself staring at someone's chin. He looked up and was faced with Aoshi Shinomori. The man was dressed entirely in black, including a black trench coat.  
  
Mr. Sagara, he said.  
  
Whaddyou want? Sagara snapped.  
  
I'd like to speak with you.  
  
Sagara looked at him for a long moment. Well, speak.  
  
The look in Aoshi's eyes brooked no argument.  
  
Muttering several uncomplimentary phrases, Sagara stepped back and let the tall man into his apartment. He shut the door once the proprietor of the Aoi had swept in, securing the locks behind him. Turning around, he looked straight at Aoshi and fixed him with an inhospitable gaze. Look, I know you're not a vampire, but you're no cute little lamb, either, so you're gonna hafta excuse me if I wanna make this short. I've been spending too much time with murderers recently.  
  
That, Mr. Sagara, Aoshi replied, is exactly what I want to talk to you about.  
  
Sagara narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. It was clear that he didn't want to let Aoshi any further into his home than he absolutely had to.  
  
For a moment, the taller man studied Sagara. He stood there, openly hostile towards Aoshi's presence, a gun sitting in his shoulder rig, which was strapped over a dirty, white tank top. Sagara seemed powerful, all strong arms and proud height and a defiant gaze. It didn't intimidate Aoshi Shinomori, but any lesser mortal would have been a fool not to sense the determination in the man's attitude.  
  
Well -?  
  
Aoshi lifted his eyebrows.   
  
I'm waiting.  
  
You came to my club recently - I'm sure you must know what sort of people frequent my club.  
  
I know.  
  
You should also know that no self-respecting business-owner would let a man like you into an establishment like mine. To be perfectly honest, it is a favor I don't intend to do again. I'm not just looking out for you when I say you shouldn't come back. My patrons don't want you there, and your personal well-being is really the least of my worries.   
  
Well, shit - Don't lay it all out on the table, Sagara said.   
  
Aoshi sneered. I'm glad you see where I'm coming from.  
  
Oh, yeah, we're clear. You know the way out, right?  
  
Sagara stood still in the middle of the room once the door had shut behind the tall man. For a long moment, he did not move. The truth was, Aoshi had just revealed something that Sagara was rather sorry he had to know . . . It was perfectly obvious that Aoshi wasn't doing _him_ any favors - which meant that his meeting with Kenshin was not only completely intentional, but was arranged by someone with connections in the vampire world. More than likely . . . Kenshin was working for a vampire. Sagara was not sure what that meant in the long run, but he was sure it didn't bode well.  
  
  
  
He could hear someone coming down the hall. Their boots were making very little sound against the rough cement hallway, but he heard it all the same. Being surrounded by a silence so great that his own breathing was enough to grate on his nerves left him very sensitive to noise. He would wait for hours and not hear a sound until a guard came with a meal.  
  
As the footsteps grew louder, he became aware of another sound - that of cloth swishing freely along and fluttering around as someone walked. So it couldn't be a guard coming with a meal yet. It was still too late at night, or maybe early in the morning, for that. Besides, no guard would wear something that would make so much noise. They all had tailored khaki uniforms. No, whoever it was that was approaching was wearing what sounded like a cloak. In the dark of the cell, he smiled.  
  
I must commend your captors . . . They have certainly gone to great lengths to keep you isolated, haven't they.  
  
His laugh was little more than a raspy noise. He didn't make a habit out of speaking any longer. Tonight, however, he decided might have to make an exception. They're doing they're damnedest, he grated out. The noise bounced off the thick metal of his cell wall and escaped out the slats at the top of the door before reverberating down the hallway.  
  
Outside, in the hall, the man was breathing slow, shallow breaths. It really is a shame, the visitor said, that they must go to such trouble to confine such a fine man as yourself. A pause, the only sound two sets of quiet breaths. I suppose you know I have a favor to ask of you.  
  
A favor. Yes. He knew. One of the guards had been keeping him informed. A guard who was under his kind visitor's thumb. And that one guard wasn't the exception to the rule. This man had thoroughly infiltrated his prison. I'm all ears, he rasped.  
  
Mm. I should hope so, the visitor replied. I've gone to a great deal of trouble to be here tonight. It isn't as easy as you might imagine, coming all this way. Have you seen the landscape around this prison? . . . It's a toxic wasteland. Quite beautiful, really . . .  
  
I thought you had a favor to ask.  
  
The other laughed. You shouldn't be so hasty. You have, I believe, three lifetimes in solitary confinement, do you not? One might imagine such a sentence would teach patience.  
  
He knew he was being mocked. It didn't endear this man to him any more, but, all the same, he was willing to endure a little lowering to get what he wanted. The quiet stretched out for a long moment.  
  
After a time, there was a sound - His visitor, he realized, had put his palm against the heavy, metal door. I have gone to a great deal of trouble not only to be here this evening, but also to facilitate your liberation . . . That is, if you intend to comply to my request, Mr. Yukishiro.  
  
Liberation. What a beautiful word. Name it.  
  
I've done enough research on you to know you can easily accomplish what I shall ask of you. So I do not pose a challenge. Consider it, instead, a welcome-home present.   
  
I would like you to create a series of explosives that may be planted and detonated remotely, at my command. I will need some thirty similar units, and they must be approximately powerful enough to destroy a large city. Do you wish to accept?  
  
There was no question in his mind. Of course. He grinned. I'll give you fireworks straight from hell, if you want them.  
  
The second man chuckled. How very quaint. Very well. I assume you're ready to leave immediately?  
  
That goes without saying.  
  
  
  
Notes:  
Not many. Many thanks to Clarus for her graciousness and her beta-ing skills.  
A ::snuggle:: to FarStrider, who has more planning skills than I do. And thank you to everyone else who keeps me writing this. Danke!  
Coming up next - some more stuff.  
Please leave a review! I love you!  
  
_SnM_  
  



	8. Chapter 8

  
  


Chapter Eight  


  
  
  
Late, late night in the Aoi had an effect on Misao that was, as far as she could tell, entirely unique to Aoshi's club. The last of the vampires had fled, now that the sun was about to rise. A few humans were left, all of them dizzy from blood loss. The smell of sweat and blood and alcohol permeated the air. Shira, Okon, and Omasu were in the back doing inventory, and Aoshi was upstairs, doing the books . . . Which left her to clean down the bar and, eventually, shoo out the remaining patrons.  
  
This was a job she could live with. It was better than working the streets, and she regularly found herself in Aoshi's bed, about which she could find no reason to complain. The tips were good, the other girls were friendly enough, and she was guaranteed protection for the denizens of the Aoi - living and dead alike. The job did, of course, require turning a blind eye to some questionable things, but it was usually dark enough that she couldn't see clearly, anyway. Besides, she'd learned long ago that pointed ignorance became an art, living in Tokyo Haven. In general, she tended to think that she'd landed herself in a pretty good place.  
  
One of the bouncers, Li, came in and ran a hand through his bleached hair. He made his way past the raised DJ's platform and approached the bar. Glass a water? he said.  
  
Misao nodded, and got a bottle of water out of one of the refrigerators behind the bar. The real tap water in Tokyo Haven was hardly even worth washing dishes with. Aoshi didn't see the need of importing purified water into a tank, when they could just buy it bottled, so that was exactly what they did.  
  
Li said, and Misao nodded again. He took a gulp of the cold water, and then another. Li smelled like relatively fresh air, and cigarettes, instead of the stale, dead air that mostly circulated inside the club. Sometimes, Misao was certain there was a particular scent that was just distinctly vampire.' She could smell it on her clothes when she went home at night. You want me t' chase the rest a these guys outta here? Li asked, taking another drink.  
  
Sure, that'd be great, she said.  
  
Once he'd finished his water, Li moved towards the four lax, black-clad forms lingering around the sofas and tables across the room. Sound of low conversation - Li's rough voice and the more indistinct voice of one of the patrons - floated across the dance floor. Misao did not listen as she finished wiping down the long bar, instead allowing her mind to wander.  
  
The sound of the heavy back door banging open startled her to attention. Before she could really discern what was going on, there was the loud noise of a gun firing. Her eyes widened as Li dropped to the ground, limp. One of the human patrons screamed loudly, and received a bullet in the head as the gunman passed. There was a dull thud as she dropped to the ground.  
  
In a little more time than it took her to jump the bar, the gunman was past the steel stairs that led up to Aoshi's office. What the _fuck_ are d'you think you're doing?! Misao shrieked.  
  
Without responding, the man continued to approach. The door to Aoshi's office burst open, and Misao could feel the fury radiating off the tall man. The stranger didn't even turn to look, just fired at Aoshi, who was making his way down the steep stairs, and continued towards the bar. Aoshi lurched from the impact, and he staggered backwards. Misao watched in horror as he lost his footing and fell down the remaining steps to lie still at the bottom of the stairs. She screamed.  
  
By that time, the man was near the bar. She could see that his eyes were open, pale and empty. She could feel tears of rage welling in her own eyes. If this man had killed Aoshi . . .  
  
Don't worry, the man said in a low, dry voice. His eyes did not move as he spoke, and he was not even looking at her. He's alive . . . He'll be on his feet soon. I just needed to get him out of the way for a moment.  
  
You mother fucking bastard! she screamed, and rushed him. To her surprise, he didn't shoot.  
  
Her surprise lasted only a moment. As soon as she was within arm's length, the man reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to his chest, his left arm tight around her neck. A thick smell, that of death and stunted decay, hit her, and she realized that the gunman was, in fact, a vampire. Again she screamed, this time in anger.  
  
Her assailant laughed, a harsh, deep sound. For a moment, she struggled, but her her attempts to pry his cold arm away from her neck only made him tighten his grip. Then something caught her eye and she stopped moving.   
  
Aoshi was slowly getting to his feet. Misao could see where he'd been shot - in the left shoulder, as evidenced by the dark stain blossoming on his trench coat there. He looked angry as he took his first steps towards them.  
  
Don't come any closer, Aoshi Shinomori, said the vampire. Her entire body tensed as she felt the cold metal of his pistol press against her temple. Don't do it, Aoshi,' she thought. Keep coming. Come on.'  
  
But Aoshi did not continue. He stopped, and stood still, his left shoulder drooping slightly under the dead weight of his arm. Who are you? His voice rang out clear across the empty club.  
  
My name is Usui Uonuma.  
  
What is your business with me? Aoshi asked. Misao could tell how tense Aoshi's entire body had become. At the first opportunity, Aoshi, she knew, would spring on this creature and rip it to shreds. And she would be glad when it happened. She had no love for its kind.  
  
I'm here, he said, on behalf of the Gentleman.  
  
Aoshi snarled. He has no reason to send his man into my club to kill and threaten my people.  
  
Quite the contrary, I'm afraid, Uonuma replied calmly. You see, the problem is, he knows you're a traitor.  
  
Fuck that. Aoshi's voice was low and dangerous.  
  
You entered into a sort of unwritten partnership with the Gentleman years ago, Shinomori, said the vampire. He has been willing to allow such familiarity between our two groups. But he also knows that, in the end, humans are rats, and will eventually betray even their closest friends. It's only a matter of time, you see, and your time has come.  
  
I don't know what you mean.  
  
I'm sure you know that the Gentleman's Company doesn't like trouble from trash like you. You and yours, Shinomori, are hardly vermin in light of the Gentleman's grand scheme, but that doesn't mean you're below extermination. Now, you gave information to a member of the police force, and, if you want the girl to live, you won't deny it.  
  
Misao's mind was racing. She couldn't imagine Aoshi turning against his patrons. He may have been a man of few scruples, but he knew better than to betray those who had been loyal to him and his club.  
  
Aoshi's eye were hard when he next spoke. You mean Sagara.  
  
Yes, that's the one. So you admit it?  
  
said Aoshi coldly. I told him nothing about the Gentleman, or any of his people.  
  
And I'm supposed to believe you? the vampire asked.  
  
I told Sagara nothing. Believe it or not. That much is up to you.  
  
Uonuma laughed, and Misao heard a metallic click. She could see Aoshi's eyes widen from across the room. The noise that followed was louder than any she had ever heard in all her life.  
  
  
  
It seemed that things had slowed down once again. Back to business as usual, I guess,' Sagara thought, jamming his hands into his coat pockets. There was blood under his fingernails - vampire blood. He had no illusions that such a sight would offend the denizens of Tokyo Haven, but he felt the need to conceal his hands, all the same. His pistol was a weight in his shoulder holster, his long-bladed knife sheathed and strapped to his belt. Inside his coat, he had two sturdy, wooden stakes secreted away, ready to be freed for use at any moment. Both his gun and his knife came in second to those in terms of usefulness. In his current line of work, only a stake could really get the job done well.  
  
He was heading home. He'd already made a stop at the police headquarters in order to deposit a black plastic garbage bag full of severed heads and to collect his pay. If he could claim nothing else, Sagara could honestly say thet he made no attempts at subtlety. He had already ascertained that his enemies recognized him on sight, as did his allies. And, in Tokyo Haven, those who weren't involved wisely turned a blind eye. Sagara was ready to go home and do some of his normal' work. He had a few unfilled munitions orders he needed to complete before the week was out, and tonight seemed the night to tie up his loose ends.  
  
The sky above was dark, the clouds beginning to thicken across the sky. The moon was ringed with clouds and glowed a sickish yellow-red. The city was relatively quiet so late at night. Somewhere far off to his right, he could hear the scream of police sirens. It seemed ironic to him that there was a police force in Tokyo Haven, but no hospital, no fire department worth speaking of, and no Administration branch office. He supposed that even the idiots who had come to rule the world knew what sort of place Tokyo Haven was, and realized the best way to run it.  
  
There was the rumble of a car approaching behind him. Sagara didn't bother turning around. He didn't know anyone in Tokyo Haven who would stop to talk to him on a night like this.  
  
Oddly enough, the car did slow, and pull up alongside the curb. Sagara felt his fingers twitch, itching for the grip of his gun. Slowly, he turned to look at the car. It was a sleek, black convertible with tinted windows, which obviously did not belong in Tokyo Haven, home to all manner of black-market and junk yard cars. He stood still, and the car came to a stop.  
  
As he watched, the passenger-side window slid down, revealing the driver. He found himself looking across the car into a pair of black-rimmed, purple eyes, framed by airy red bangs. Kenshin, who was wearing a black linen shirt and soft, black leather pants, smiled at him, his dark lips once again a wound-like contrast against his pale skin. It had been two weeks since his brush with Kenshin at the Aoi.  
  
The redhead leaned his elbow on the bottom of the steering wheel, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. His vibrant eyes never left Sagara's as he asked, Wanna go for a ride?  
  
  
  
  
Author's Notes:  
Bountiful, jinormous thanks to Clarus. I ::heart:: you!  
Also, gracious thank you's to people who are reviewing. It sounds like a public tevelision funding drive when I say it, but it's true: This fic is made possible by readers like you!  
Sorry, this chapter is _not!_ for Misao fans. I actually do like Misao (despite the fact that she got shafted in the voice-actress department in the dub). But that's OK. I like her. A lot. But she had to die. It's a lot vehicle. Nothing personal. (FarStrider, it's all your fault. Well, sorta.)  
So, I threw in Usui. I'm really glad. I think Usui kicks ass, more so than most of the minor villains in the series, and especially a whole lot more than Shishio.  
Ah - I should note that the next chapter will be a _¡sex!_ chapter. There is also plot, but not a great deal, so you won't be really effing confused if you don't read it. If you're not cool with that, don't freak out, cause it won't be posted on FFN, for obvious reasons. I don't know where it will be posted - probably with Clarus, some day, if she'll take it. This story is, currently, archived nowhere else . . . I don't think. Anyway. Eventually, you'll be able to email me for it, or something . . . But that probably won't be until the next-next chapter is up.  
In any case - That's all for now!   
  
Love and hugs,  
_! SnM_  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

  
  


Author's Note:  
Well - Here's Chapter 9. The lemon actually comes after this, and is currently being beta'd. So, someday, it will aaaaall be up on Clarus' lovely site. Until then, here's Chapter 9.  
Enjoy!  
  
_! SnM  
_  
  


Chapter 9  
  


  
Sagara watched the world slide gracefully by. Tokyo Haven was dark through the tinted windows of the black convertible. Every time they passed a street light, Kenshin's thin reflection on the window glimmered out of existence, only to reappear a second later.  
  
The car ran smoothly, quiet for the most part, over the pock-marked city streets. Sagara saw the bullet-riddled buildings go past, the warehouses and apartments slowly thin out, until they were driving through the dump that surrounded Tokyo Haven. This place had been suburbs once, maybe, the sort of place Sagara grew up in . . . But, like his childhood home, old Japan was little more than a memory. Old Tokyo had been decimated centuries ago - it really was so very long ago, so long that Sagara could not imagine what it had been like - when . . . something Sagara could not name had changed the face of the earth. Tokyo Haven was the shattered remains of an old city, rebuilt only in the worst and most unstable ways. What lay around the city limits was mostly dump, and, further on, wasteland, Sagara imaged, long-since abandoned.  
  
The street lamps disappeared as they passed the check-point and its inattentive policeman, and the city's trash began to overwhelm the struggling strains of the natural world. Kenshin maintained a steady speed until they were out of the city, gunning it once they reached the open stretch of road. When the car surged forward with speed, Sagara turned to look at his driver, but Kenshin's smooth, pale face was impassive. He seemed deep in thought, beautiful and pensive. They had not spoken since Kenshin offered him a ride.  
  
Sagara found himself unsettled by Kenshin's strange presence. As he had in the Aoi weeks earlier, he felt something in Kenshin, something that seemed to be just on the tip of his tongue, but inexpressible. Trying to pinpoint this characteristic, which lingered about the redhead like a faint perfume, was like lying in bed, between sleep and waking, trying to remember a dream. Sagara could not name it, for all that he was worth. The closest he could come was alluring,' but that was only the beginning. Beneath Kenshin's enigmatic pull was something even stronger than beauty or lust. Perhaps, although Sagara couldn't be sure, something darker than all that.  
  
Kenshin shifted gears again and threw the car into yet another burst of speed. Sagara knew where they were going, now - a mountain called Takao, or some other old name like that . . .   
  
You should've told me we were taking a day trip, Sagara said. I would've packed a picnic lunch.  
  
The redhead laughed, though he didn't take his eyes off the road. We're _not_ taking a day trip.  
  
It's a good ways out, where we're going, isn't it? he asked.  
  
I wanted to spend some time with you, Kenshin admitted.   
  
So you kidnapped me. I'm not sure if that's kinda cute, or if I should be worried.  
  
It's only about an hour's drive . . . It used to be really pretty up there, I hear . . . Before things changed.  
  
Sagara looked out the window, at the uneven, dark terrain. Not much living around here, anymore.  
  
Kenshin glanced at the other man out of the corner of his eye. No, that's true. He paused. The little, black convertible was making phenomenal time. Still - I bet it used to be beautiful.  
  
Used to be trees where I grew up, Sagara said after a time. Kinda weak-lookin', little things, and wrapped in fences, surrounded by sidewalk. He had not seen a tree in years . . . It seemed like a lifetime ago.  
  
There was a small smile on those soft, dark red lips. I can remember places with trees, Kenshin said. It's a shame, that there are so few left anymore.  
  
For a moment, Sagara was quiet. I wonder what happened to 'em.  
  
They died. After that, they fell silent.  
  
After a time, Kenshin reached out and flipped on the radio. Without looking away form the road, Kenshin skipped over several stations of static, and a fractured news broadcast, before turning it off again. Radio reception around Tokyo Haven was scattered at best, as there were no public stations broadcasting on the island at all. The police had a frequency on which they communicated, and that was about it.  
  
The road stretched on ahead of them, the dump a cratered landscape on either side of the pavement. Occasionally, Sagara could make out a tree or clump of bushes, struggling to survive.  
  
This island, Kenshin said presently, is actually rather large. Compared to the city, itself. He paused. But it's all just wasteland. There're even some - damage sites. It was an all-purpose phrase, damage sites,' that the administration used to describe dangerous territory, destroyed by some unnamed power. Most people had no idea what could possibly cause those sites.   
  
As time passed, the sickly lights of Tokyo Haven faded out of sight in the side mirror and Sagara felt as though he were farther away from humanity than he had been in an age . . .  
  
. . . Time, it seemed, had gapped and stretched, and Sagara found himself soon afterwards on a dark mountain road, very high up. Off in the distance, past the frail trees and through the fog, he could see Tokyo Haven glimmering in the dark. The moon was a dull white in a cloudy sky, and the car's engine was silent. Not far beyond the hood of the car, the road dipped into a thicket of more waif-like, delicate trees and continued its upward climb around the mountain.  
  
Don't think ve ever been so high, Sagara said quietly, a little awed. The view, though masked in smog or mist, was beautiful.  
  
Kenshin, too, seemed reverent.  
  
He made a soft sound. No . . . He paused, looking at the city in the distance. Don't think so.  
  
Another moment passed in silence before Kenshin asked, Why did you agree to come here with me?  
  
Sagara thought about it. In all honesty, he couldn't say he knew. To say he trusted Kenshin would be not only stupid, but untrue. But perhaps there was something telling in that statement, which he refused to utter. It was simple to see that he probably shouldn't trust Kenshin . . . Suspicion, he'd found, often worked more fully to his advantage. Something, however, in him - something more guttural than speech or even thought - told him that, maybe, Kenshin might be worthy of his trust. The real question was whether this instinct was valid or not.   
  
I don't know, he said slowly. Maybe I haven't got anything better to do.  
  
Kenshin laughed, and it was a sweet sound. Do you really think that's true?  
  
Not sure, he replied.   
  
What would you say, Kenshin said, sounding hopeful all of a sudden, if I told you I'd been counting on seeing you again?  
  
Well . . . I'd say, I hope it wasn't for business.  
  
His dark mouth spread into a closed-lipped smile that seemed like a sly gash in his pale skin. Kenshin shook his head. No, not for business. I really like you. Actually - His smile became more intimate. - Actually, my employer doesn't know I'm here right now.  
  
Sagara smiled, as well, rather pleased to hear this news. Won't that cause problems? he asked.  
  
Kenshin ran his palm down the smooth, black leather of his pants to rest on his knee. Not if he doesn't find out, he said, looking at Sagara. Then he reached up and tucked a bit of hair behind his ear. It doesn't bother you, I hope?  
  
he replied without much hesitation. In this place, employers and business and roles that needed to be played seemed as distant as the city lights.  
  
I'm glad, Kenshin said softly. Sagara's eyes were still trained on the landscape when he heard leather shifting against leather and felt a cool hand on his left cheek, urging him to turn his head. As he did, he felt a pair of glossy lips meet his own.  
  
  



End file.
